Starter, Learning Objective, Lesson, Plenary
by Foxes at Night in Tailcoats
Summary: Severus Snape in AU mode, caught in the career he knows in the modern day muggle world. Will he stay there, or will he rejoin the wizarding world?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor would I ever wish to, the little . . . ahem, where was I again? Oh yes, 3 cheers to JKR for her wonderful creativity!**

**Chapter 1**

Mr Prince looked dully to the front of the auditorium and tried to stifle a yawn.

It was 4.30 p.m. on a Wednesday, and there was another hour and a half to go of the twilight CPD session. The lady leading the session, which was entitled 'Making your mark, tips and tricks mark smarter, not harder' was enthusiastically espousing the merits of bingo daubers. 'Just assign a certain target or message to each colour'. For instance 'Use pink to say 'Well Done!'

Severus tried to mentally picture himself at his desk, planting different coloured splotches on the student's work and instead wrinkled his nose. Continuing Professional Development. What a joke.

It had been ten years since he had joined the Science Faculty in this muggle school, three years after his supposed death. Sometimes he wondered whether it would have been preferable to die instead. At least then he wouldn't have to listen to insufferable 'experts' droning on and on about things they could never fully understand, not being actually on the teaching floor themselves. For Merlin's sake, the academic body could actually be marking right now and making progress this instant, rather than scrambling to find space next week because of the time taken up by this session.

The priestess of education droned on, bobbing her head of lustrous chestnut hair. Severus examined his nails, which were cleaner these days as he had practically given up potion making. He then rubbed his hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble that always started to appear at some time after 2.00 p.m. every day. He noted his skin felt rougher, that he was definitely getting jowlier. Well, age happened to everyone.

Oh no. A group exercise. The annoying expert was marshaling them out of their seats, organising them in rows, trying to get them to participate in a game of silly poses that would wake them up as staff and would supposedly do the same for the students within a lesson. Severus considered casting a disillusionment charm on himself, but knew the risk was too large to use unauthorised magic for something so trivial. Instead, he reluctantly joined his colleagues on the floor, making up the back row with several others who were also highly skeptical. They gave each other sympathetic looks and grunts. Out in the front row the SLT members were giggling and having a fine old time, lapping up this latest educational fad.

Severus knew they all didn't have a chance. He would have a set of bingo markers thrust in his arms and be ordered to make the class into a monkey-house before you could say 'insanity'.

His two happier thoughts were that a) most of the rest of the staff thought of the ideas in exactly the same way as him, and b) the students would, too.

They were all in the same boat, being made to jump through stupid, pointless hoops. He had never known it to be otherwise whilst being anywhere near an establishment controlled by a government.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I didn't create Harry Potter (the little twa . . .umm. I'll just shut up now, shall I? ). **

**Chapter 2**

Living in the muggle world had been quiet but dull for Severus. He would have thought that ten years of not having to think every minute or so of whether any action he took would have a gigantic repercussion would be a relief, but he found the reality tedious, petty and rather trivial.

Of course, he had expected the bickering, the posturing, the social climbing of many of the staff members. This was a true fact wherever there were humans, he knew this well. Doubly true was this of grownups who had never left the school environment, who had finished as prefects, head boy or girl, lauded by the staff if not by their peers, and then who attended university and applied for a job under their old alma mater. In Severus' humble opinion, it made for cliquey adults who had never experienced the bitter defeat of the 'real world'.

But then again, who was he to say this wasn't the normal interaction between functioning humans? Merlin knows, he would be the last person to say that he was socially adjusted.

The following early Thursday morning after the CPD session found Severus tightly wrapped under his stripy ivory and turquoise quilt, willing the alarm to shut up and for the day to be Saturday. He felt rather unravelled, after snatching a curry on the way home (jalfreezi, with chips and mango chutney) and downing a whole bottle of Semillon to go with, that morning he was not feeling fragile so much as I can't arsed, seriously. However, he knew that the P.A. of the school, Mrs Rosenbloom, would not accept this as an excuse, any more than she accepted legitimate colds, family bereavements, or children's pantos. Groaning with a long established hatred of the morning, Severus rose from the comfort of his quilt and headed for the bathroom.

One hour later, after ablutions, breakfast, and the arduosity of choosing an outfit for the day, Severus stood on a kerb a few streets away from his house, waiting for his lift. Paula pulled up two minutes later in her banged up Kia. 'Stephen, morning,' she greeted, slightly dipping her sunglasses so he caught a glimpse of her hazel eyes before she flicked them back up again, armouring herself from the early hour of the morning in general. It being the back end of summer, it was light, and Severus could tell that she may have had a similar night as him, judging by her body language.

'Morning, Paula. Ready for today?' As expected, Paula completed the exchange with the well-rehearsed groan. Teachers had many rituals, and the one about contemplating their painful students (especially years 8 and 10) were sacred. It stood to reason, however, that these complaints actually spoke volumes about the affections and regard teachers actually held for their students. A real problem would not have been broached that early in the morning, with such a cavalier attitude.

Severus settled himself back for the ride, slipping on his own pair of sunglasses. The sun was getting lower at the same time every day, they were after all heading rapidly up towards Christmas with a frightening speed. Soon the Year 11s would be panicking over their exams, their mocks and their G.C.S.E.s. Soon, the teachers would be beat over the heads and raked across the coals with explanations demanded as to why the precious children did not get the mark that they had been predicted . . . .

Paula began to outline some lessons she had planned for that day, and 'Stephen' nodded his head occasionally, adding 'uh ums' and 'mmh hmmms' to affirm her thoughts. He had learnt that this was a vital skill in communication with colleagues over the years, not so much in Hogwarts, where he had been able to walk about in what had approximately been his own skin, but here, in the Muggle world . . .

In the _real_ world, as Severus had started calling it, privately and fearfully to himself. For it did seem that Hogwarts had just been a dream, that the Dark Lord and Dumbledore and the Malfoys and that cursed Potter brat had just been a particularly vivid dream he had had one night, one that became more and more foggy with the passing of each boring year. If it wasn't for the large, jagged bite marks on his neck, he might have been totally convinced that his name was Stephen Thomas Prince, that his mother was Stacey and that his father was Leonard, and that they lived in Great Yarmouth.

But the scars, the jagged red lines that ran halfway around his neck, with the white scar tissue in-between, they reminded him. Every time he looked in the mirror, every time he shaved in the morning (or in the evening if he was going out) they were there, reminding him.

Paula finished talking and began singing to the radio. As her voice was not unpleasant, Severus did not object, however, as per normal he did decline when she urged him to sing. And so, in the warmth of general companionship and a duty shared they reached Tate Academy.


	3. Yr 7 for P5 isn't as bad as Yr 8 Maybe

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any part of the Potterverse, except for my place in Slytherin house as accorded to me by _Pottermore_. And a Slytherin quidditch jumper, a mug, a replication of Sev's wand, a replication of Sev himself, a . . . ok, if you knew any more I think you'd be frightened.

**2****nd**** Disclaimer: **I will never parody or write about real people in this fiction unless it is myself. However, I will base incidents on things I've seen or attitudes I've encountered.

**Chapter 3**

With one hand wrapped impatiently around his mug and the other drumming out a series of staccato taps on the bench, Severus willed the kettle to hurry up and boil already.

Lunch finished in 10 minutes. He had 10 minutes to hastily down a stale sandwich from the canteen (cheese and pickle, the only ones left by the time he got there) and to inhale his coffee. Severus cursed the new Science lab rules which did not allow ANY food or drink in them WHATSOEVER. It seriously raised his levels of grumpy, not being able to resort to a sip or two of a hot beverage whilst dealing with students.

And next were Year 7. And they were up to Reproduction. Oh joy.

The kettle finally bubbled over and Severus added the boiling water to his mug, and then, with hardly a hesitation, dumped another teaspoonful of coffee in there as well.

'Someone's looking forward to class this afternoon, then'. Tom Gratch, another faculty member, grabbed the kettle after he had set it down and refilled his mug.

Severus grunted in reply and blew on his coffee. He took his seat at his desk in the Science Faculty 'cupboard', a mere storeroom between classrooms that had been, apparently through sheer willpower, made to also accommodate five desks for teachers.

It made for a very cosy space indeed. And cosy, in Severus' definition, meant 'Way to bloody close to each other and squashed in like sardines in a tin'. The staff were always knocking each other about as they scrambled from one end of the room to the other, reaching over each other to grab textbooks and other whatnots from shelves, and, on one memorable occasion, almost landing themselves in hospital (Prytia Forsyth, balanced precariously on the edge of a desk and extending her reach as far as possible to obtain something on a shelf, fell off and broke her wrist. Luckily, Simon Patton (Second in Department) broke her fall on the way down, _he _knocked his head on the edge of a desk and got concussion).

'Why don't you say something?' asked their friends not in the school system. They heard how Prytia quickly patched herself up (Stephen was a fantastic First-Aider and set the bandage strongly and firmly around the offending wrist, whilst making sure it was definitely under the sleeve of her blouse and therefore not visible for questions), and how another member of Science (Catherine Lodel, Head of Faculty) taught Simon's last class of the day. The teachers as a whole would have strongly retorted that saying something to the Higher Ups was not an option.

The faculty knew, along with other departments within the school, that letting something like this get out would cause SLTs eyes to instantly be upon them, and a new decree would possibly be issued, such as 'Every Staff Member Shall Not, From Henceforth, Have Their Own Space Where for 30 Bloody Minutes They Can Be Free Of Children and Can Remember That They Are Adults And That They Do Have Lives'.

Officially, teachers were expected to use the common Staff Room for lunch, and their classroom for work, the reasoning being that the staffroom should be a vibrant hub of cross-curricular thought and data sharing, enabling brilliant and beneficial schemes to be born. In reality, though, simple mathematics and physics put a stop to this, quite simply, the staff room could only fit in about a quarter of the school's employee body at any one time. Traditionally, too, this was the realm of the Teaching Assistant, as they had no space of their own whatsoever and therefore congregated here. Fair enough, too, everyone needed somewhere where they could take a break. Which lead to, Severus thought, the second reason why the staffroom would never be a scintillating hub of synaptic function, the reality was everyone was just too shattered by lunch to care beyond discussion the latest outcomes on _Strictly Come Dancing_, or which football teams were playing that weekend and the merits of each.

The bell chose that moment to loudly declare lunch to be over, and as a body the Science Faculty groaned. Severus bolted down his coffee in a few swallows and braced himself for period 5 with the year 7s giggling and getting hysterical over penises and vaginas.


	4. Large Dog, Larger Quandry

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or, Sirius Black. Though the latter I possibly wouldn't mind knowing (however, I do believe he'd begin to annoy me VERY quickly). I don't own Severus either, he owns himself. And is sneering at the Sirius mention. Dear Sev, do you know I like Lupin a lot as well? What do you think of them bananas?

A shout out to my first reviewers, duj and maidofkent, thank you for your kind comments.

**Chapter 4**

In a chamber that not many people knew existed, deep in the bowels beneath Whitehall, a curtain stirred . . .

This occurrence had not gone unnoticed. Like a volcano that was only 'sleeping', the curtain and its accompanying archway were closely monitored for the slighted flicker of change. An automatic graphing quill, attached to the ancient structure by a monitoring charm, noted down any activity for study at a more convenient time. As such, the standard procedure currently was to check the readouts only once a day.

The wizard who's job this was, one Allegrano Thomas, would soon find himself unemployed, reasons being cited as 'Duties Not Undertaken With Due Care And Respect For Circumstances'. It was a pompous was of saying 'He didn't think beyond the end of his nose', or, as Allegrano would protest to whoever would listen, 'What, am I meant to be a bloody predictor of the future now? Those sort of spikes in data have been happening for years! No, I won't go quietly, you can't make me, arrrghgfhgh . . . '

None of this was reported, indeed, there were only a few people within the Department of Mysteries who knew of the incident themselves. However, as with all secrets, this one too would reveal itself in time.

The curtain moved again, and this time it did not seem as if it were being pushed by an invisible wind, but by a more solid force. Fingers appeared around the edge of it and gently handled the fabric for a moment before tentatively pulling it aside a fraction. A grey eye hesitantly surveyed the empty space, and, noting it to be seemingly empty, pulled back in confusion. However, it soon reappeared, bringing with it a rather aristocratic nose and its ocular twin.

Sirius Black did not step out from behind the curtain until he had listened thoroughly, until he had sniffed the air to enable the heighted awareness attributed to his Animagus form to tell him the room was empty. In his mind it had been filled only minutes before with a ferocious battle, the change to silent and lifeless made him suspicious. Where was everybody? Where was his beloved godson Harry, where was that bitch of a cousin Bellatrix? There had been others, too, he was sure there was about fifteen people here only a moment ago, one third of them kids.

And Remus … where was Remus?

This thought, and a further one of Harry, prompted the tall but faintly stooped man to re-enter the room properly. Thinking that the fight may have moved on to another section of the ministry, and wondering how on earth they could just leave him there, Sirius carefully opened the door to the corridor and scouted down it with his eyes and nose both ways. He couldn't see anyone, but in the distance he could smell people. But the scents were unfamiliar, they were no-one he knew.

Suddenly he felt disorientated and a strange feeling of helplessness washed over him. Gripping the door jamb for support, Sirius forced himself to slow his breathing and still the panic starting to race through his mind. Everything felt wrong. He had been in tricky situations before, ones that were thrilling, or unjust, or want-to-rip-someone-to-shreds-there-will-be-blood-I-swear angry making situations. But this was different, this was strange and he couldn't identify why. And though Sirius Black thrived on adventure, he still liked to be the one in control and on top. Currently he was neither.

The Unspeakables didn't notice the large black dog creeping carefully past them in the shadows. Others within the building did notice it but most did not pay it much heed, those who did found themselves ignored as the animal stayed true to its course and did not allow itself to be coaxed away or petted.

Using his previous knowledge of the building, his sense of smell and the comments dropped by others, Sirius found his way into the main foyer. He was startled to find it changed.

The gold statue of the benevolent witch and wizard, the elf, centaur and goblin was gone, replaced by a marble one of two figures. Sirius carefully padded around it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. One of the shapes, the taller one, was still most definitely a wizard, with flying robes, a tall hat and flowing beard, his wand arm thrust out before him in a decisive manner.

The other figure was smaller, though it too was of a wizard. However, the pose of this one was very different. His arms were outstretched as if delivering a blessing to all of those who gazed upon him. His hair was sculpted in a sweeping arc, as if being blown back by a great wind that also billowed his stone robes behind him. Yet the youth, for a youth it was, stood firm, his marble visage determined yet benevolent.

Feeling more and more confused, Sirius took another look at the monument as if hoping that it would change into something familiar to him, something he could recognise and latch onto mentally. A plaque at the base caught his attention and he moved closer to examine it.

DEDICATED TO HARRY POTTER, THE BOY WHO LIVED, AND ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. TO COMMEMORATE THEIR BRAVERY IN STANDING UP TO TOM RIDDLE AT THIS SPOT ON 18TH JUNE, 1996. MAY WE FOREVER REMEMBER OUR GRATITUDE.

Sirius stared. He suddenly felt dizzy and his heart flipped over. Harry? Dumbledore? In a statue? A marble commemoration in the Ministry of Magic?

He must be having a dream. A nightmare. Maybe he had been knocked unconscious and was still out cold whilst the battle raged. He looked at the date again. 18th June, 1996, that was definitely today's date.

Sirius went to move away but found his legs were trembling. The people going by started to blur and loose their shape and he wondered if he was going to be sick. Surely this would be over soon? He would wake up and maybe find himself in St Mungos, with a nice nurse taking his temperature, maybe changing his pyjamas… no, no, this was not helping, not even a bit, he didn't even feel like thinking of these sort of things. He had to wake up. They needed him, he had to help them, to protect Harry, he had to…must find a way . . .

The crowd continued to hurry past oblivious, and Sirius found himself crouching against the wall of the fountain, willing everything to return to the familiar.


	5. A Study of a Midlands City at Night

Ok, ok, Sev (oh, sorry, _Mr Severus Snape_ – no I'm not putting in all your titles!) would like to express to you all his regret for the last chapter and suggests that you go to someone you trust to be obliviated if you feel that the event necessitates it. Such as if you need to – (what? Oh, ok then, )- Such as if you can't stop feeling that you need to gouge out your brain - (you know something? You can be so over-dramatic. Drama Queen. . . . Yeah, takes one to know one right back!)

(Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter!)

**Chapter 5**

The streets of the Midlands city were glazed with rain from a recent shower. The fresh scent of ozone mixed with the cities' regular olfactory presence, the pungently sweet yet acrid smell of marijuana, diluting it slightly and softening it.

Autumn was slowly giving way to winter. Yellow and orange and brown leaves scattered the footpaths and the wind occasionally cut right through even those who were dressed for the season.

This, admittedly, was roughly about only one sixth of the people who were out that night. They stood around in huddles at the doors to pubs and nightclubs, trying to use each other as windshields as they partook in their cigarettes. They chattered gaily and yelled out, laughing, smiling, having a smashing night out. But the goose pimples on the exposed arms and legs belied their true feelings about the situation, and they always hurriedly ended the huddles, only to be replaced by the next lot.

Severus found himself looking at all of this with a very jaundiced eye. He had felt the need to go for a walk, to think, free of the confines of walls. He did his best thinking whilst on the move, it had always been the case. He could remember an occasion when he was about six or seven, and his mother had given him a Muggle logic puzzle to figure out. 'If you have to cross a river with a fox, three chickens and a bag of seeds . . . '.

_Severus had scoffed. 'Well, you get out your wand . . '_

_'No, Sev'. Eileen gave him a gentle smile, pleased that magic had been his first thought on how to fix the problem. 'Pretend you're a Muggle. You don't have any magic. How would you solve the problem then?'_

_The actual puzzle itself Severus solved in a few hours of wandering around the shambles of an unkempt backyard, digging occasionally in the ground and smelling where the tomcat of the area had marked his territory. But a new question had kept infiltrating his young thoughts, a troubling idea. Why had his mum wanted him to think like a Muggle?_

His present day reverie was suddenly broken by a gaggle of women walking and laughing unsteadily on high heels, their skin unnaturally orange, their eyeliner thick and dark, glitter and hair extensions adding to the cosmetic mix. The pushed past him, calling to each other raucously, shouting out their enjoyment of their evening, letting everyone see they were young and beautiful and having a good time.

One of the girls stumbled, falling against him. His arms automatically went to steady her. There was a momentary close smell of alcohol and sweat and perfume, and of something human, the unique essence of another being.

'Oooh, ohh, sorry!' she giggled, and her eyes focused for a second out of their alcoholic trance, before she turned and went to catch up with her pack.

Severus watched her go, or rather, watched her backside and legs in a dress that in his opinion was way too short, but which seemed to be the popular choice amongst the cities' club-going women. .The encounter had not been unpleasant, and even now he could still smell her perfume. Tuberoses were the main scent, with a bit of white musk. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of wondering whether she had been attracted to him, whether he should chase after her and try to catch her attention . . . but thousands of reasons why this was not a good idea filled his mind and he just sighed and watched them walk out of sight.

He carried on his solitary ramble, coming eventually to a more residential area. A large stone wall was on his left, further up the footpath it broke for a high, wrought iron gate which was decidedly padlocked.

Severus took hold of his wand beneath his overcoat with one hand and with the other held the lock. Casting _Alohomora_ softly, he felt the iron click in his palm. Carefully and casually, he unlatched the chain and opened the gate just enough for him to slide through, locking it again once this was accomplished.

There was other ways to get into the park at night, but they involved climbing, which was more effort and lent rise to a greater opportunity of being seen and caught. Why do that when you could go in the proper way?

Severus often came to this spot at night. During the day it was filled with kids and their minders, be it Mum or Auntie or someone else. Elderly people too could be seen there, taking their constitutionals amongst the azaleas, or daffodils, or whatever flower happened to be in season at the time. There was a pond full of colourful carp, a little stream with a tiny waterfall and a rather small Victorian looking avery. It was a picturesque place and the city council did their best to look after it.

At night it was a rather different story. Because of the extra effort it took to get in, people who would not appreciate their business being seen by others tended to hang out here. Severus had observed quite a few things over the years and heard conversations which would have been rather interesting for the police.

However, he never did anything with the information. He was not contractually obliged, he didn't play 'boy hero'. He had had enough of that shit, more than enough of it. Why the hell would he do it for people he didn't know?

His usual bench, under a crabapple tree was wet and Severus didn't even bother checking it out, knowing that this would be the case. Instead he headed over to the quaint rotunda, another memento of Victorian times which had been given heritage status, thus rescuing its wooden boards and ensuring that it would never be knocked down for a soulless concrete piece.

The structure was in use when he got there, two bodies apparently locked in an awkward state reminiscent of a drunk wrestling match that was being held in quicksand. Severus mounted the steps, casually lent against a support pillar, folded his arms and cleared his throat.

He felt like he was back at Hogwarts again, during a celebration where the children got into all sorts of corners and scrapes in the name of hormones and experimentation.

The couple had not taken any notice and so he made the noise again, this time shifting his weight,

This, coupled with the movement, made the quicksand wrestlers aware of his presence. After separation, Severus could see they were in their twenties.

'Whatdoyah . . . ' the boy started, the words dying in his throat before his eyes went wider and wider. 'IT'S BATMAN!'

He grabbed his partners hand and careered past Severus, tripping on the third step as he did so, the girl being dragged down as she still was in his grip. They rolled onto the grass, moaning and disorientated.

Sev watched all of this without batting an eyelid. Eventually the two sorted themselves out and started limping for goodness knows where. In his mind he was wondering about the Batman connection, and was startled to find it rather pissed him off. Obviously the guy was on something, and he, Severus, wasn't wearing robes, just a normal black overcoat. But to still be recognised as bat like after all these years . . .

. . . . was a petty sting that he needed to let go of. Severus sighed and leaned on the guardrail. He lit a cigarette, a guilty pleasure that he carefully allowed himself occasionally, and moodily stared into the shadows, slowly becoming wrapped up in thought.

The rain started up again and soon the soothing sound of it could be heard dropping from leaves in a calming pitter patter. The fresh earth smell again became apparent and Severus felt himself starting to relax.


	6. Satisfactory Does Not Mean Satisfaction

I don't own Harry Potter. However, in the very near future I will own some apple mango jam toasties. Yum.

**Chapter 6**

'Anna Fowler?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Ben Hinkenbotham?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Aurelia Keryatikute?'

Here, Sir'.

'Logan Moshan?'

'Yeah.'

Severus stifled the sigh of annoyance that threatened to rise from his chest and fixed the ill-mannered offender with a long practiced stare. A cheeky smirk was flashed back. It still amazed him, after all of his years in teaching, that students used the same puerile methods to try to create anarchy and promote themselves to looking cool in the eyes of their peers.

'Logan Moshan?' Severus tried again, adding a dark hint of threat to his undertone.

This time the kid gave in. 'Yes, Sir.'

'Thank you' Severus replied without looking up. 'And kindly please stop swinging on your chair'.

The next nine students were registered with no problems other than a few late-comers walking in and taking their seats, a raised eyebrow was enough to dissuade them from making any additional disruptions. He was down to the last three students when the door once again opened.

'Good Morning, Sir, don't mind me' Loretta McClean swept into the room with her particular brand of no-nonsense false cheerfulness and proceeded to set up a space for herself at the back of the room behind the students. This time the sigh inside his chest tried to morph into a groan. Great. Just great. Just what he needed during Year 10 Core Science Period 2 on a Tuesday morning.

The staff had been told two weeks ago that the period for the first wave of unannounced observations was beginning. Each teacher had been issued with a pack outlining the expectations for an outstanding lesson, as dictated by OFSTED. Severus had barely glanced through his, he knew the gist of the contents through catching snatches of conversations between colleagues. And unannounced observations were not new. It was just the goal-posts that kept changing.

The class sensed something was up and sent whispers around at each other whilst Severus tried to flick the Interactive Whiteboard to show the Learning Objective. The little 'I'm thinking' symbol came up on the computer . . .

This time Severus really did sigh, whilst inside his stomach started to twist up in knots. Observations. He hated them, but unfortunately in Muggle schools they were standard practice. It was spoken between colleagues across the country that it was really a scheme by the government implemented as a way of keeping the voting parents sated in their desire 'to keep the lazy teachers accountable'. Or indeed, by Heads to control their staff . . .

The computer still didn't respond and Severus turned to his whiteboard, whilst directing two students to get out and distribute textbooks. Already he could hear restlessness and chatter, causing him to write the Learning Objective on the small whiteboard as fast as he could so he could turn around again to keep an eye on the class, his mind quickly trying to return the lesson so that it was not computer reliant and yet was still enough for Ms McClean to give him a 'Good' or an 'Outstanding'.

'Sir, Sir, what page again?' This question was repeated five times by various students, only a handful actually on task and reading. Severus pressed the power button on the computer, re-starting it. He knew it would take about 5 more minutes before it started up, logged on to the network and opened up Powerpoint and the interactive Science program. This was going to be a very long lesson.

At the end of the day, sitting in Loretta's office, Severus sat grim-faced, arms folded. Smiling at him, the Deputy Head had just told him that she had given him a 'Satisfactory' rating and now was proceeding to outline 'where we go from here'. Severus was not listening, in his mind this crap was as nonsensical as what the Ministry of Magic had produced under Delores Umbridge's reign as High Inquisitor.

'You see, the kids think, well, they think you're rather un-approachable. They say they want to learn but you won't help them.' Severus managed to hear this accusation through his reverie, causing him to pay closer attention to what was being said. 'You have to try and engage the students more. Be more friendly with them. Say hello to them when they enter the class. Smile occasionally!'

She gave him one of her own smiles at this point, which rather put him in mind of a vampire before they dined. He couldn't help thinking that if he smiled at his students they'd probably think the same. In fact, they'd probably actually find his un-approachability increased if he smiled.

Paula had waited around for his feedback session to end and he found her marking in her classroom, her green pen frantically correcting and writing targets. 'So?' she enquired, only briefly pausing her regime.

'I must make myself more friendly. Apparently the students don't understand because they're too scared of me and therefore this makes it impossible for them to ask me questions about the work. And also, I should have more pens on hand. So that students can work. Because they need to start the lesson well and if they don't have a pen they are not ready for the lesson … when did teachers become nursemaids?'

'Don't get me to answer that one.' Paula closed the books and started to put them in their plastic tray. 'I don't have kids, and therefore my answer will be misconstrued as 'uninformed', 'ignorant' and 'how dare I, the person who gets more time off than any other sort of worker, who works less hours in a day, suggest that parents should parent more?' She picked up her bag and keys and turned off the lights.

Severus did think she was oversimplifying it quite a bit, however he knew that a lot of teachers agreed with the general theory. He had never had to worry about these sort of things in his previous teaching career.

Briefly he wondered what Minerva would think if he told her of his experiences here. Actually, he wondered quite often what Minerva would think of his life now. And whether she would care. He suspected she wouldn't. He was silent, mulling over such thoughts, until Paula nudged into the kerb. Hurriedly he disentangled himself from the seatbelt and practically tumbled out onto the footpath.

'Steven!' Paula called, leaning over the now vacated passenger seat and peering through the open car door. 'Chin up, man. Don't let the bastards grind you down'.

He closed the door and she drove off towards her flat and her boyfriend and no doubt more marking whilst watching '_I'm a Celebrity_'. He thought on her last comment. He wouldn't let them grind him down, they were Muggles, for goodness sake, and he was one of the most . . .

Now where did that piece of elitism come from? It shocked him that occasionally his mind still threw up such ideals casting Muggles in the role of some sort of proletariat. He thought he was beyond such ignorant stupidity, especially by now.

That night Severus found that it was this that disturbed his sleep and caused him to toss and turn until dawn.


	7. Candlelight Makes For Clandestine

I don't own Harry Potter. But I'm not bothered. And it's the first day of the Christmas Hols, YAY! (Hey, when you get to sleep in 'till 7.30 am you know it's good!)

Also, thank you for all the kind and flattering reviews, it's lovely to receive them.

**Chapter7**

It was midnight, and in a very secure room that only a handful of people knew about a meeting was brought to order.

'So,' said the Minister of Magic. 'Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I know how valuable your time is to each of you. However, this is an issue that will affect us all and the generations beyond.' Here he paused and looked each of them in the eye in turn, as if judging their nerve and whether they took the situation as gravely as he. The five nodded and bobbed their agreement, some eagerly, some in a stately manner. One wizard with thinning hair that was more grey than ginger, folded his arms and nodded seriously.

For Arthur Weasley, this project was very exciting. He felt privileged, honoured and humbled to be included in this new initiative, the Ministry's immense new plan. However, he did not let it show on his face, these days he looked before he leaped a lot more than he had done in the past, he therefore kept his joy locked away, waiting for the appropriate moment before releasing it.

'Minister'. A white haired man with a long neck and black and white robes (he actually looked rather like a Crane), 'Have we proceeded any further with how we are going to move forwards in this, umm, introduction?'

His parliamentarian coyness did not endear him to the Minister, who knew Rogastrato Zelafar of old, - all of his wheedling tricks and methods of ingratiating himself were not new. However, the Minister was himself someone who could smoothly and easily move through political waters, and often others found themselves agreeing to terms they would never had previously considered before they had had their hand shaken by Minister Shacklebolt, his handsome deep brown eyes looking squarely into theirs and his warm smile lighting up his face and causing those around him to respond likewise. Room atmospheres changed when he walked into them, a glance and a nod to one of his staff members made their day. Yes, Kingsley Shacklebolt had used his time at the top well, and people were grateful for it.

His Second in Command, the Deputy Minister, the Right Honourable Madame Mafalda Hopkirk, gave Zalafar a wry smile that tonight did not quite reach her eyes. She was letting him know that she was watching him closely. She was watching them all closely. It was her job, and she was good at it.

'What has the Muggle Prime Minister said to our proposal?' A witch with golden robes and hair cut in a page-boy style asked, waving around her hand imperiously as if to show off the gigantic and precious carbuncle stone that was set upon it in ancient Goblin-wrought, beyond precious metal.

There was mutterings around the room at this and Kingsley waited for it to die down slightly, knowing that a gentle persuasive touch was what was needed here. 'It is not the Prime Minister we are dealing with, Savahna, or rather, it is not only _one_ Prime Minister. The United Nations is a . . . '

'Yes, but answer the question, Shacklebolt, whoever is saying yes to our proposal, what do they say?' This was from a rather small man with a leather jacket cut in a WWI aviator style, he curled his upper lip as he spoke and made the waxed, upturned handlebar moustache on it quiver. He put Arthur, a long time reader of Muggle authors, in mind of one of his boyhood favourites. He had always loved the adventures of Biggles.

Kingsley decided gentle and persuasive had had its time and now authority needed to take over. 'They are in the final stages of making a decision. All signs, however, look positive . . .'

'Final stages? Only _making_ a bloody decision?' Zalafar shook his head and looked more stork like than ever, or at least Madame Hopkirk was put in mind of a heron shaking a frog before swallowing it. 'They've only had twenty years to . . . '

'Yes, yes, yes.' The Minister held up his palms for silence and was granted it. 'We all know the arguments. We know the time it's taken. We also know a lot of patience is needed, this is a big undertaking for _all_ of us'. He took the time again to look around at every one of them, the candlelight flickering off the bronze fixtures and the small conference table and coating them all in the subsequent glow. 'We know this,' he repeated, 'and we know it may never come to pass. But,' here he gave off his legendary charismatic smile 'somehow I don't think that this will be the case. Especially after the assignment we have just been given by the Muggle Governance'.

The eyes around the table all looked to his immediately, looking hopeful and nervous and fearful in turns. Madame Hopkirk hoped that the Minister's legendary allure would cover him now.


	8. When Life Kicks You Rip It All Asunder

OK, I'm not sure but I think I've got a timing wrong somewhere, it's right for this chapter but only 10 years have passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, and I'm not sure if I got that right at the beginning of the story. I am really, really bad at everyday maths. I will go back and fix the previous chapters and check them.

Warning: Language at end of chapter. If you don't like, then cover your ears. If you don't like Sirius, you may run out of the room screaming now.

I don't own Harry Potter.

**Chapter 8**

At approximately the same time whilst the aforementioned gathering was taking place, someone else was also sitting around a table, candlelight flickering and casting shadows around the room.

Sirius could not sleep, and so had reluctantly risen and gone in search of something to eat. Currently, he was sitting on a bench in the kitchen, a large bowl of Cornflakes in front of him (topped with a mound of sugar, the things were useless otherwise in his mind), a rack of toast with a pot of strawberry jam to one side. He had turned up the Aga and had boiled himself a nice, piping hot cup of tea on the hob, and the rather moth-eaten, mouldy quilt around his shoulders kept away some of the draft.

It was too early for the morning edition of the Daily Prophet, but in any case Sirius was still fascinated and horrified by the previous publications that he had covertly retrieved from the Official Owl Post Exchange Box the wizarding family two streets away had fixed in the eaves of their house (it looked like an ordinary nesting box and therefore the recipients did not have to wake up and pay and feed owls when they arrived at some unearthly hour. Everything the owl needed was in the box. The wizarding world had taken to these boxes with rather an unexpected enthusiasm, the invention revealed that actually, a lot of people did not like being scratched, pecked and generally terrified (in their words) by owls. And many strongly objected to the mess they often left behind, what with crumbs and husks and feathers and, eherm, _business_).

It was therefore an easy thing for Sirius, at 5.30 each morning and 2.00 each afternoon, to remove the newspaper from the box when the family was either asleep or out on their various activities of school and work.

They were all dated 2008. A date that when he had first seen it on his panicked journey from the ministry to Number 12 Grimauld Place had made him stop in his tracks. He had been passing a news-stand, which had the daily headlines of all of the main papers splashed around its sides. 'WORLD FINANCIAL CRISIS' screamed one, whilst another asked 'BARACK OBAMA, WHAT THIS WILL MEAN FOR THE USA AND THE WORLD?'.

Even normally, previously, whatever, Sirius would have scoffed at the headlines as Muggle issues and not given a damn about them (though page 3 girls in the Sun was one good Muggle idea in his opinion!) The fact that these current ones did not make sense to him was therefore not new. However, it was the dates, the dates were frightening him. 2008 was not the correct year. It was not November, 2008. It was June, June 1996, and even though his nose was telling him otherwise, from the smells in the air that only came out during Christmas to the temperature which was definitely rather chillier than normal for a June, Sirius tried, he willed it to be the reality he knew. But no matter what he wished for, or screwed his eyes shut and tried to will into being as if he was still a small child, only the days changed numbers, and the year stayed the same. 2008.

From his readings of his pilfered Prophets he found out slowly, piece by piece, as if traversing a mountain whilst it was covered in dense fog, what the shape of his world was now. Kingsley Shacklebolt was the Minister of Magic, rather a shock but a good call when Sirius came to think about it. He was also pleased to see Mafalda Hopkirk as Deputy Minister (she had been sooooo sexy when he was younger, he remembered the pictures in the prophet of her in her tight little pencil skirts and shapely legs, hair pulled back into a tight bun . . . even now with grey hair and wrinkles she still seemed to have that spark). There did not appear to be any mention at all of You-Know-Who. The Quidditch teams seemed to have changed their players. The styles of robes were different, the advertising was for objects he had never even heard of, he spied a coupon for 10% off in a shop called _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_, which was certainly linked to Fred and George in some way judging by the products listed.

And then, on the third day of this dizzying journey into surrealism, he had seen the photo. It had been the first thing on the page to grab his attention and, after letting the wave of nausea subside in his core and the tingling feeling of horrific shock that instantly shot into his fingers and toes at the sight of it die down, he read the accompanying heading. '_Oh Baby, You-Who-Must-Be-Named!_' and felt sick all over again.

In the photo a bashful man stood, his shoulders stooped, messy black hair at a contrast with his neat suited attire, head angled down. One of his hands was joined to another, tiny one belonging to a black-haired child of about three or four. Next to them stood a slim and toned redhead, looking expensive in white trench coat style robes with complicated pleating on the sleeves and large lapels. The lower hem grazed her mid-thigh giving off the effect of a mini-skirt and exposing the glossy chestnut brown, knee length high heeled boots that encased her shapely legs.

But even this delightful view, which would have normally had Sirius lingering and appreciating, fell by the wayside. For it was the object in her arms that drew the eye, a tiny baby, wrapped in a very long, delicate cobweb of a lace shawl, a soft knitted bonnet with satin ribbons on the tiny scalp not quite covering the fine dusting of red down on the top of her forehead.

Harry and Ginny. The article confirmed that it was indeed the Potters, the Wonder Family, the celebrities of the wizarding world. With children. Three children. The article was in honour of the youngest's naming day, Lily, Lily Luna. And they were married. And older. And, and . . .

After this Sirius had gone into a terrible rage and had pulled the house apart, furthering the dilapidation that had been taking place uninterrupted since his parents died. Sirius screamed and howled and threw things. He tore down curtains, smashed plates and finally took a poker to the picture of his mother in the hall when she demanded he stop at once and started to insult him, smashing the frame to woodchips and with the hook on the end savagely ripping a gash across his parents' face, causing the image to be silenced.

The days that had followed had found him in a state of lethargy and denial. His mind kept going over and over the situation without providing any useful information whatsoever. By the sixth day he was up and about, but had moved his camp into the kitchen, his bed beside the Aga where it was warm.

Eating his cornflakes that morning the only plan that he could think of once again entered his thoughts, and this time he decided that he could only give it a try. He would go to Kingsley. He didn't know what the hell had happened between now and that night in the Ministry, but Kingsley should know, he should be able to help, he would remember him, right?

After having decided on a course of action, Sirius felt better. He always did when he was the one in control. Take that, Fate, take it and swivel on it! He was Sirius Black, anything that tried to get in his way or deny him what he wanted could just fucking get out of his fucking way before they got their head smashed in and their balls ripped off. He was Sirius Black and the Blacks took no prisoners. And if Life kept fucking with him like this, well, he had had enough. Time to fucking give fucking Life some fucking back.

Sirius headed up to the bathroom to wash, shave and make himself presentable, a sneer of determination twisted on his features.


	9. Let's Blame It On My Migraine, Shall We?

'We now return you to your normal preferred viewing. Severus, you may now step forward'.

'Hmph, are you sure the dog crap has been totally removed?'

'You're the one with the wand, you do it. I'm going out to buy some wine and chocolate. Be back soon'.

'Don't forget the sloe gin and cider, it is practically Christmas after all and I need something that's going to make me merry'.

'You don't get merry when you're drunk, you get maudlin and angry'.

'That's a lie, I don't ever get drunk'.

'Whatever, I'm going now. Write the chapter, would you?'

'Humph.'

_I wouldn't be seen dead within 10 miles of Harry Potter._

**Chapter 9**

_It was the week before Christmas, and all through the school,_

_All the students were stirring and the place was Misrule_

_The teachers were tearing their hair out in clumps_

_And wishing it wasn't illegal to punch_

_For students were deserving, so many it's true_

_And thus last week dragged on for ship and for crew_

Since starting work at a Muggle Educational Institution, Severus had wondered in the lead-up to Christmas whether there would be any differences between it and Hogwarts, traditions-wise, students-wise, exhaustion-and-short-temperedness-for-teachers-wise. The short answer was no.

The students had started the hype three weeks prior. There had been a little dip in week two, around Wednesday and Thursday, but on the Friday it had started to pick up again and now, on the last day of term, Severus was once again trying to supervise a lot of over-excited kids without having the room mucked up.

As per every other year, he was failing.

Severus was not used to failure. He didn't like it. Especially when it came to managing classrooms, to terrifying children so much that they whispered about him to their brothers and sisters, telling them tales of the frightening teacher who would give you detention if you so much as dared breathe at the wrong time, and woe betide you if you actually get your potion wrong . . . he loved seeing the little year 7s troop into his classroom for the first time, some looking petrified, some out to prove their elder siblings wrong in a misplaced and foolhardy display of rebellion . . .

But that was at Hogwarts. Here he wasn't allowed to give overly long detentions, or ones that were deemed too dangerous. That is, if you got to give them at all. Half the time the little brats didn't come to assigned detentions, then the ones that did told their parents (sometimes then and there by a sneaky text) and soon the teacher would be hearing about it. 'Please ring Mrs Such-And-So, she's very upset with little Johnny being kept behind with the rest of the class, because he's not naughty, it's others in the class . . .', this was a typical occurrence after giving a detention. Whole class detentions were often necessary as MOST of the class were being noisy or whatever, and you couldn't always see the one or two which were behaving themselves.

He watched as the Science Faculty TA, Brendon Fowler, walked around the groups of Year 9 students who were happily chatting away at each other or, as any other normal person would put it, yelling and screaming across the room at each other. They would throw pencils and felt tips, and balls of paper, and occasionally quickly reach across the table to slap one another. They would also complain loudly that they were 'bored' and implore Sir to put some music on, which Sir refused to do, knowing that they would just start speaking louder so they could hear themselves above it. Brandon picked up their mess as he went, occasionally trying to get the kids to quieten down. He was unsuccessful in the latter, the kids were in control and they knew it.

Severus knew that perhaps he should be taking more of a lead in the session, but instead he just stood there, over in the corner, beside his desk. He knew other teachers were showing their class DVDs, or had arranged fun little quizzes with prizes for them. In his mind, they were lucky that he allowed them sit and talk and draw instead of making them do work. In previous years at Hogwarts . . .

At Hogwarts, who was he kidding? Dumbledore would have let them all outside in the snow to squeal and have snowball fights, and only the unlucky supervising teachers had anything to grumble about as the rest of them gathered in the staff lounge for a bit of a tipple and to partake in plum pudding and minced pies in the presence of the roaring log fire. And he was always damned-well sure it wasn't him watching the little idiots, usually there were one or two staff members who actually enjoyed interacting with the precious darlings.

He could almost see his old green and brown striped battered armchair now, the horsehair stuffing coming out of that hole in the side of the seat that he would sometimes find himself pulling out absentmindedly whilst he was thinking. They all had their own spaces in the staff-room, his desk was between Aurora's and Filius' along the side and towards the back, but his place by the fire was behind the first bank of armchairs, towards the door in case a quick getaway was needed. It was a space where he could often observe other's faces, reactions to announcements, overhear conversations. It was a space where he could keep his finger on the pulse of the adults of the school, something which had often proved useful. It was where he could sip a cup of tea (in a proper china cup, with a saucer of course) and relax in his own thoughts whilst someone droned on and on about something inconsequential.

'SIR! MISTER PRINCE!' Sharp female voices squealed him out of his reverie and startled he jumped a little. 'SIR! CAN WE GO TO THE TOILET? SIR SAID TO ASK YOU!'

'No' he said, looking down at them and starting to raise his hand to his forehead and cursing Brendon for being way to 'in' with the kids. 'Now, please, if you will, lower your . . . '

'Were you asleep, Sir?' 'Are you excited for Christmas, Sir?' 'How many people do you have to buy for, Sir?' 'Can we do something fun, Sir?' 'Sir, I'm going to piss my pants!'

'Please don't, for all our sakes Chelsea.' Severus started to rub above his right eye where he could feel the tension of a migraine beginning to mount. 'And watch your language.'

'BUT SIR! SIR! PLEAAASSEEE?!'

'NO!' Severus felt goaded into giving a harsh reply, and then instantly felt shamed for losing his temper at a child when they were just excited about the time of year. It wasn't Chelsea's fault, annoying as she was (all of the teachers agreed that Chelsea was one of those 'Names to be avoided' in the teaching world, along with Kyle, Jake, Callum, Connor and any of those silly modern girls names that were either made up or inspired from a TV soap opera), he should have more patience. Instead, if it was at all possible, he felt that what little tolerance he had ever had for moulding and shaping young lives was even less than before (Chardonnay and Lambrini indeed. It was enough to make you totally lose faith in the world).

The bell finally rang and the class rushed out screaming. Severus looked around at his trashed classroom and turned his back on it. It was lunchtime, only one more period to go. Meanwhile, he was going to take some of the potion for migraines he kept in his top desk drawer and find a dark corner in which to appease his head.

Later on a group of them sat at the pub, giving themselves a more cheerful end of year send off. There was laughter and chatter all of the way down the two benches they had appropriated, a few had purchased bottles of wine and were sharing.

Severus sat on the end of the table with his ale. His migraine was still threatening and he didn't really want to add to it with strong drink. Besides, he liked ale, and _Old Speckled Hen_ was a nice drop.

Beside him on his left was Paula, gaily chatting away to Lara Forrest (English) beside her, and on his right Simon was talking across the table to George from Design and Technology. Occasionally they would ask Severus his opinion.

The talk got louder, the gathering got more and more raucous. Paula was on her fourth glass of wine and Severus foresaw that he would probably be driving them home, as what often happened on these occasions.

'So, Steve.' Patricia from Music addressed him quite loudly from down the table a little way, the full force of her five glasses of rosé and two vodka and tonics driving her volume and causing her face to look flushed and unfocused. 'What actually happened between you and Persephone? We never knew whether you two were on or off!'

Severus felt his face flush and his body stiffen as several faces around the table eagerly pushed into his vision, waiting for his response to the question they had been wondering about on and off for two years now. He felt the lights start to strobe and his vision started to dim as the migraine, finally let loose, started to tamper with his internal systems. His stomach suddenly lurched with nausea and his brain became cloudy and confused, the noise was getting too much and he awkwardly raised himself up from the table and staggered towards the exit. Simon, Paula, George and Elisha from English looked at one another in concern and made a tacit decision not to follow him, they knew he was livid and any display of sympathy would be met with a wall of anger and denial. Meanwhile, others started to discuss their own theories on the topic.

'He drove her away, you know.' 'Did they ever actually have a relationship?' 'No-one knows, he was a bit old for her don't you think?' 'I don't know, I think he's a bit of a silver fox. And then there's that voice. . . ' 'Yeah, the voice . . . fucking lucky Persephone was, why didn't she take the opportunity when she had it?' 'Maybe she did and he dumped her.' 'How can you think he's cute? His nose is so, so . . .'

No one got to know what Asha thought about Stephen's nose (though they could guess) because Simon broke up the gossip and Paula decided that a decent enough interval had passed. She excused herself and said her goodbyes, and Elisha decided that since she had only had sparkling water all night she had better chaperone the pair of them or they might end up in a canal or a roadside ditch somewhere, especially with the ice forming on the roads due to the council and their supposed 'salt crisis'.

Elisha found Paula looking around in a confused manner in the middle of the car park. Stephen was not in sight, and was not responding to her rather wobbly calls. The two ladies did a preliminary scout around before trying his mobile, but there was no response. Finally Elisha decided that possibly Stephen was stubborn enough to have tried to leg it home, and convincing Paula to get into her car they set off looking for him, Paula cursing out the appropriate staff members nonstop.

They found him twenty minutes down the road, doggedly trudging along the grass verge. Elisha stopped the car and confronted him.

'Right you, no arguments, I'm taking you home. Get in the car'.

In response Stephen violently rubbed over his eye, turned and threw up. Paula started to get out of the car too, but Elisha ordered her back in, it would just be their luck she stumbled in front of a lorry or something. She turned back to Stephen who had produced a handkerchief from somewhere (the thought of 'who carries handkerchiefs these days, honestly? Crossed her mind) and was tentatively wiping his mouth. He was still clutching over his eye.

'ARE YOU OK?' Paula was leaning out of the car window as far as she could and again Elisha worried about oncoming traffic. She slung her arm firmly around Stephen's shoulders in a way that brooked no argument, he flinched but gave in and his colleague gently led him over the road.


	10. The Tale of the Tulip and the Thistle

I don't own Harry Potter

**Chapter 10**

_Once upon a time, in a magical kingdom surrounded by tall, forbidding mountains, there lived a Prince. _

_The Prince was not overly Tall, (though he was not short), and he was Dark. This meant that he had two of the precious known criteria that it was considered Good for Men to have._

_However, the Prince lacked the third characteristic, that of Handsomeness. He wore his dark hair long and it looked unkempt and uncared for due to his Age and the fact that Young Men have active Hormones. _

_His Nose was Large and Hooked, and therefore stood out as the main feature on his face. Between The Nose and The Hair, often The Prince himself would get lost to others._

_For those who did look past the two offending Features, there was also the Coal-Black Eyes to consider. Some of his contemporaries whispered behind their hands that the Princes' Eyes were like two Bottomless Pits of Fire from Hell, where Souls burnt for all Eternity._

_It did not seem to matter to them that the Prince had another Characteristic, that of being Clever. Cleverness was all very well, but it didn't stand a chance next to Handsome. And Cleverness could go both ways, it required thinking, and philosophising over, whereas Handsome, Tall and Dark were just surface features that could be quickly admired and lightly discussed without much Attachment or Care._

_And so it was that the Prince, who had not known much Kindness in his life, continued his Journey into Adulthood, that perilous and rocky path that so forms many people, and his Character became much like the struggling Flora clinging to the sides of the mountains he lived within, Twisted and Starving and Surviving in intense conditions because that is What They Do, this was Where They Were Born, and therefore they Had to Make the Best of It._

_It did not mean that those Botanical Specimens ever grew up like a treasured Tulip in a conservatory, lavished with Affection and Care until the most Beautiful and Precious Bloom decided the time was right to open its' petals and show itself off to its' Admirers. A Flower such as that was monitored all of the time, making sure that it had everything it needed in order to be the Best._

_No, the Vegetation on the stark Hillside had quite a different Environment to grow up in indeed, and the Flowers that were produced were of an entirely different Look, Small and Close to the ground in order to pick up any Nutrients more easily, and to protect themselves from the Elements._

_However, for many, the showy Tulip was not considered to be Attractive. For whilst it had Flair and Style, there was something off-putting about the fact it required, nay, Demanded constant Attention and Admiration._

_For these people, plants such as the Thistle and Gorse and Heather were their preferred Flowers. For though they were not so Elegant, or their colours quite as Spectacular, they had other features. True, they were Prickly. But they were also Tenacious, and they had a Wild beauty that the Tulip did not._

_And so, really, it came down to preference. But who was to say that one Choice was correct over the other?_

_In the end, Tulip or Thistle, they are both still Flowers, and that is surely enough._


	11. Curiosity

'Well, that was rather saccharine. Do you let Disney write all of your stories?'

'Sly digs, dude, sly digs. My tongue is partially in my cheek. Now be quiet otherwise I'll write you into a ditch on the fens, upside-down, with the wheels spinning'.

'Oh, goody. I would look forward to that much more than whatever character assassination you are doing to me here. _Dude._'

'Right-on, bro!'

*face palm* 'Sometimes I _really_ despair.'

(I don't own Harry Potter)

**Chapter 11**

As Stephen rummaged around in his kitchen cupboard, trying to find the hangover potion he was sure was in there somewhere, Elisha was curiously examining his front room.

She had insisted on seeing him to his front door, and, in a sudden start of energy Paula had stated that she was coming too. Now she was passed out on the faded settee, snoring loudly.

The room had an empty feeling to it. There was no TV, no pictures of family or friends on the mantle. There were no cosy furnishings or pot plants. Elisha got the feeling that this room was not used very often.

She heard Stephen curse and his footfall sounded in the hall, in a bit she heard him on the stairs.

When they had first pulled up Elisha had seen a typical sandstone and red brick terrace, sandwiched between several others, with a tall bay window and a black door with a silver knocker. The front doorstep was reached through a tiny space that could only be called a 'yard' or a 'garden' by the most optimistic, which was covered with concrete flags and was more of a place to keep the various containers the council gave households for their refuse. In neighbouring spaces this area was covered by weeds, or had been planted with small perennials and ornamental shrubs. Even the fences surrounding the properties were vastly different, some were knee height and brick, others were gleaming wrought iron, still others were dilapidated with sagging gates and peeling paint. Often the sign of care was the difference between a particular houses' occupants being only tenants or actually owning the property. Stephen's was immaculate, but only contained the dustbins.

Elisha let her nosiness get the better of her and she entered the hall. Going past the stairs which were still pitched to the steep gradient Victorians seemed to favour, she ended up in the small, kitchen. It was thoroughly clean, with nary a mug on the draining board, even the washing up bucket was neatly placed on its side in the sink, ready for its next use. The net curtains were the cleanest Elisha had ever seen, and she tried to peer through them to see something of the back garden, however, the darkness was too great.

'Find anything of interest, did you?' Elisha spun around to see Stephen leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. However, he didn't look that upset, but, she reasoned, that might be due to the fact that he clearly had his migraine, he was still squinting.

'Did you find your medication?' She had offered him Paracetamol in the car but he had insisted he waited until he got his specialised stuff at home, Elisha assumed it was prescribed, she had had a Great Aunt for which this had been the case.

'Yes' he replied, once again rubbing over his eye as if suddenly reminded of the pain. 'I had a spare lot in my study. Paula all right?'

She nodded in reply as he moved to the sink and began to fill the kettle. 'Tea?'

Oh what the hell, Elisha thought, it was only 6.00, and Justin and the kids could cope on their own for a few hours more.

Twenty minutes later found the two in the front room again, occupying the single armchairs. Paula entered the conversation every now and then from the settee, alternated by short, random periods of lightly dozing. The fire had been lit in the grate and there was a packet of shortbread opened on the coffee table.

Elisha thought that his medication must have loosened him up quite a lot, further than the alcohol had, for as he lazed comfortably, delicately balancing the tea cup on its saucer in front of him, he seemed like a different person. He sounded different too, the normally crisply enunciated consonants and strained vowels that formed his usual speech patterns were slowly giving way to dropped tees and aitches in words. Every now and then the removal of 'the' from a sentence would also be noticeable.

Even with a couch cushion over her head Paula seemed to pick up on this as well. 'Alreet, Stephen, you're well goin' all sort of Geordie, so you are'.

'Paula, I am doing nothing of the sort' he countered with all regular crispness and diction returned to his speech, but no venom. 'And please don't call me a Geordie . . .' here he gave a mock shudder and actually gave off a tiny smile at the floor.

'So, where are you actually from then?' asked Elisha, quite intrigued as the mysteries that already surrounded her colleague seemed to increase.

'North' said Stephen, and raising his cup to his lips that was all he would say on the matter.

They chattered for another hour or so before calling it quits. Stephen saw them to the front door. His face had lost its green tinge and animation had returned to his body.

'Thanks for your help tonight'. He felt awkward standing in the doorway. Social situations were often still a painful experience for him even now.

'Any time' countered Elisha brightly. Here Paula decided to chip in 'Eh, lad, there's nowt wrong wit ye, everyone is poorly now and then, getting mortal and making a bell end outta thyself . . . here she was prevented from delivering any more friendly insults (and from speaking any more incredibly bad Geordie) by Elisha grabbing her arm and steering her firmly towards the car. This was not before she caught the rising of Stephens' eyebrows, however, and the slight shaking of his head as if she were a particularly deficient student. He called out after her 'For the last time, I'm not from Newcastle!' before waving and turning back indoors.

After dousing the fire and double checking that the doors and windows were locked, Severus started up the stairs towards his more familiar habitat. He felt rather odd and couldn't put his finger on why. Whilst having a shower he ran his thoughts back over the night, over the awkward prying of his colleagues regarding Persephone (that was his and Persephone's business, thank you very much, and just went to prove the point don't get involved with anyone at your workplace), the students that day and how he had behaved with them, being ill in public, in front of two colleagues none the less, the list went on.

Giving his hair a final rinse, which was not hard these days due to it being kept conventionally short (want a job in the Muggle world, then you'd better conform to a Muggle's point-of-view on appearance and dress) Severus towelled himself off and put on his nightwear before going into his study to look for a particular book.

If Elisha or Paula had allowed curiosity and bad manners to lead themselves upstairs, they would have seen instantly that this was the part of the house that Stephen used more regularly. There hall walls, papered with the same duck-egg blue as downstairs, had some pictures on them. Closer inspection of the pictures would have shown them actually moving, but of course if someone did actually come to observe this they might feel that they had been imagining things.

It was the study that truly would have given clues as to the real man who lived here. Wall to ceiling were bookshelves absolutely rammed with tomes and papers and professional scientific publications, with stacks of the same piled high on the floor. In front of the window was a massive mahogany desk on which there were more piles, these ones, however, were in a much neater state, suggesting they were currently in use. A large black feather resided in a silver and mahogany holder on the desk, a small glass and silver filigree bottle containing ink also nestled in the same caddy.

If someone had managed to penetrate this far into Mr Princes' domain, they would have been able to create some fantastical theories as to who the man really was from this room's contents. But it would have been the photographs that would have piqued interest the most, for is it not said that 'A picture paints a thousand words'?

There was one where a young lad, with an overly large, flapping black coat thing on, long dark hair and a nose too big for his face, smiling shyly at the camera. Another boy stood next to him, laughing, his arm slung casually over his friend's shoulder, he too had long dark hair, though it was wavy, and his coat like garment fitted him well.

Another picture again showed the large nosed young man, a little older this time than in the previous picture. He was apparently at a party, there was a smirk upon his face and what looked like a cocktail in his hand. His turquoise cravat was untied and the first few buttons of his shirt were opened above the fastening of his fine gold embroidered, peacock blue waistcoat. Leaning on his shoulder and laughing was a beautiful, slim and elegant woman, her long platinum blonde hair swept up in an elegant knot on the nape of her neck and her gossamer gown sparkling with crystal beads. A fortune of jewels glittered around her throat in the form of a white and pink diamond necklace, and matching earrings graced her lobes.

There were only two photographs on the desk itself. The first was a faded picture a lady. She was kneeling in a garden on an old pillow, a large battered straw hat on her head, a small gardening fork and trowel stuck into the flower bed beside her. Her hands were covered in dirt and she was holding a big, blowsy rose to her face, her eyes closed as she appreciated the beauty of the flower's scent. She looked young and fresh and peaceful and idyllic, a young woman in the bloom of her youth.

The second picture showed the same woman in a double breasted coat that ended above the knee, its large, rounded neckline and big rows of buttons prominent design features. She was crouching down and in front of her was a small toddler whom she was holding around the waist. Her cheek was touching his and he was laughing, there was a smile of pride on her face which softened her slightly irregular features.

There was another photograph, but this one was tucked away in an envelope that was placed in the desks' top drawer. From within that one, a young woman with red hair and almond shaped green eyes smiled confidently and with assurance, breaking every now and then into a small laugh which rendered her even lovelier than before. This picture was not honoured with a frame, it was not on display, and it was the most precious treasure of all.


	12. With A Little Help From My Friends

I don't own Harry Potter.

**Chapter 12**

Kingsley Shacklebolt finished organising some papers on his desk and replaced his quill in the holder. The chronometer on his desk said it was 9.00 pm on Christmas Eve. Rubbing his eyes, his thoughts turned towards his family and the celebrations that would start when he stepped out of the grate at his home in Richmond. He loved Christmas, but being Minister of Magic meant that he could not relax in his role, Christmas brought its own problems in the wizarding world when some over-enthusiastic antics and strange occurrences always seemed to take place after drinking and socialising. It was not his job to deal with these incidents personally, that was most definitely his extensive teams' role. However, little things lent to bigger things, and, well, the Minister had learnt through experience that it was best if he keep his finger on the pulse during the festive season.

Picking up his briefcase from the floor, he placed it on the desk, opened it and began to fill it. There were several papers he could bring home, he didn't want to do too much work and yet there was a lot of things that needed tying up, the Jaystone case, the discussion with the American President for Magic, the whole pile of United Nations red tape that had to be checked and approved and thought through . . .

The door to his office was violently flung open and a figure appeared, partially shielded by the doorframe. Kingsley's wand was already in his hand, he looked steadily and firmly at the stranger.

'State your name and your business'.

'Kingsley? Kingsley, it's me. It's me, Sirius. Sirius Black'. The figure took a step forward but returned to his previous position when the Minister gave a little threatening wave of his wand.

'I'll put my hands up, see? Putting them up now. No weapons'. Sirius had raised his arms and started to walk through the door. With his wand the Minister gestured him towards the middle of the room where a small coffee table and some overly designed chairs were placed, as he walked over Kingsley performed an Accio charm to gain possession of his wand.

The man didn't sit down but just stood there, waiting for instructions.

Kingsley carefully walked towards the intruder, never breaking eye contact or lowering his weapon. He had seen some strange things during his time in the Ministry, and had had his fair share of dangerous lunatics coming harm him or claiming that they were some well-known figure who had changed their features (and sometimes even their age and sex) through some obscure incantation or potion). Usually, however, his personal bodyguard of Aurors kept these fringe elements at bay.

For now, the mystery of where his protectors were was the last thing that was crossing his mind as he faced down the man standing in his office. He had long, black, wavy hair, rather straggly, and a beard and moustache that matched. His clothes were rather mismatched, like he had thrown on something out of a wizarding charity bin, the cuffs of the brown trousers came up above his ankles, the purple striped shirt had a badly mended rip across the breast and his necktie was some sort of mustard yellow colour.

'Kingsley.' The man spoke again, his voice filled with resignation and regret and, at the back, a tiny sliver of hope. 'Kingsley, please. Please believe me. I am Sirius. Please Kingsley'.

Sirius was not accustomed to begging, it was a position that was rather alien to him. He liked to be in the position of power, the one who could decide other's fates. But he was in a position that required all pride to be dropped if he was going to get some help figuring out what was going on.

'Why do you claim you're Sirius Black?' The Minister eyeballed him fiercely, daring the stranger to give him a reason to use his wand.

'I am, Kingsley, I am!' The ragged man desperately held his arms out further, palms upwards. 'Kingsley, think! Think on a question you could ask me, a question only I would know the answer to.

'No' said the Minister. 'Everything regarding Sirius Black is public domain now, if someone wished to impersonate him they could easily find out the information they seek. However,' here he paused and casually pretended to check his fingernails to see if the man was put off guard, 'however, I believe that you would not object to taking Veritaserum if you are indeed telling the truth?'

'Of course, anything!' cried the man. Kingsley felt that he was clearly at the edge of his sanity, grasping at straws. And he, the mighty Minister of Magic was going to be dead. Not by the madman's hand, but by his wife's if he eventually got home, because all-in-all this was shaping up to be a long night.

Swiftly he cast his patronus to call for backup, and then he smiled genially at the man. 'Please, take a seat. I would offer you tea or coffee, but my Assistant has gone home'. Hesitantly the man lowered himself into one of the fancy post-modern style armchairs. 'So, Sirius. How did you come back to join us in this world, then?'

The man looked up at him with his enticing grey eyes. 'Cut it out, Kingsley, stop trying to humour me as if I was a demented child. I assure you, I am who I say I am. And I have absolutely no idea on how I have ended up here ten years in the future. I just walked back through where that curtain was in the Department of Mysteries, there was no-one there, the last thing I remember before that was that bitch of a cousin of mine . . .'

'Yes, Minister?' Two Aurors were now blocking the doorway and looking rather unfriendly.

'Sir, if you will step this way please.' Kingsley gestured his arm towards the door, his meaning was clear, get up and put yourself in their custody. For a fraction of a second Sirius considered his options regarding escape, but then his natural arrogance took over, he had nothing to hide, they would find that out, everything would be O.K. soon. Getting up off the chair he walked towards them, his natural swagger returned to his stride, the normal confident smile breaking over his face as he turned back towards Kingsley . . .

Only to be knocked out cold with a stunning spell by the two Aurors, who then levitated him and cheerfully took him away to be interrogated.

Kingsley sighed and grabbed some Floo Powder. He was going to have to tell his wife that he wasn't going to be home any time soon, and that was a conversation that was best got over with as soon as possible.

After that, it would be time to see how crazy this new twist bizarre trip could get.


	13. Musings On Deoxyribonucleic Acid

'Can you not just put him BACK through the curtain? You have the power, you know.'

I don't own Harry Potter.

**Chapter 13**

Arthur Weasley sat in the outer sanctum of the Minister of Magic's office and took another sip of the coffee Kingsley's personal assistant had made for him. Beside him sat Madame Hopkirk, her lips pulled into a taught red slash across her face. The P.A., Ms Facere, was all professional cool despite the fact that she had been asked to come in on a Saturday, and the Saturday after Christmas at that. Whilst she waited for further instructions from her boss her filled in-tray kept her busy.

He, too, was trying to project an aura of calm, but inside he felt a nervousness that he hadn't experienced in a while, and that was saying something. Arthur had seen some very odd things in his life, working at the Ministry tended to reveal all sorts of extraordinary and fantastical goings on. As long as there were people around there would be interesting circumstances created and fascinating situations to explore.

He had never, though, dealt with the emotions of a person who was thought to be dead for a number of years now, who was buried in the mind and who the grieving process had been completed for. He knew that it did happen very rarely, people woke up from comas in strange hospitals suddenly remembering who they were, or those who were unfortunate enough to have been kept a prisoner without their family and friends' knowledge suddenly finding themselves free, occasionally these happy endings were shared with the rest of the world to either prove that the human spirit did triumph and there were good things to find in the world, or to give those who liked a bit of rubbernecking their dose of schadenfreude.

But this was different. He had seen Sirius go through the veil after being pushed by Bellatrix' spell and they had been assured time and time again in that first month after the incident that there was no chance of ever seeing him alive again. It was a Veil of Death, the Unspeakables had explained, that that was why the room was called the Death Chamber, and at least five of their colleagues had given up their lives to follow their hypothesis regarding the structure in living memory, none of them had come back and the research was therefore labelled inconclusive. It was as big a mystery to them as to anyone as to this man casually popping back out, unaware of the years that had passed in his absence. They argued over the Blip shown on the readout, why, when there were similar Blips throughout the years, why had this one produced someone when others hadn't returned. The Unspeakables were excited and discussed and quarrelled over scientific magical theory.

In a way Arthur envied them, if it hadn't been something he had been involved in he too would be eager to explore the phenomenon, if only through casual social chat with colleagues.

Only a handful of people knew the truth of the matter at this point in time, however, Arthur would bet that it didn't remain a secret for long, already there were whisperings and rumours floating around. The Ministry was always a bed of intrigue and generally Arthur made a point to avoid it though sometimes there was the odd occasion where useful information could be gained.

He had not told Molly anything about it, apart from being explicitly forbidden by Kingsley, he knew that it would distress her. This would, in its own way, cause further complications, though he loved her dearly, her often overwhelming overprotective streak sometimes got in the way.

Molly would definitely have wanted to be here today, Arthur thought with a bit of guilt, if she knew that the Minister was now deliberately involving her precious son-in-law. Kingsley had asked for Harry, he considered it the final test of whether the man was Sirius Black or not, even though all other tests set to identify him had come out positive.

Arthur recalled suddenly a discussion he had once had long ago with Severus Snape about Muggle identification methods. The man had been in an unusually relaxed mood and therefore he was slightly loquacious. They had been sitting by the fireside in Grimauld Places' battered sitting room whilst waiting for someone or another to finish with Dumbledore and at Arthur's suggestion they were partaking in a glass of a full but soft merlot. Arthur couldn't remember how they got on the topic of Muggle science in the field of forensics, but apparently it was something Severus had indeed looked at rather closely.

'I don't quite know why the Ministry will not incorporate some of these methods into their practices,' the younger man had said 'Well, actually, I do know, they're typically a stick in the mud against new innovations, typical bureaucrats, typical wizards thinking they know best.' (Here Arthur had nodded and agreed, his feelings on the matter were exactly the same, and the fire and the wine were starting to make him feel full of camaraderie).

'I have yet to see whether the practice works on those who have taken Polyjuice Potion, indeed, there are several other factors to consider with regards to D.N.A. For example, if the witch or wizard is an Animagus, does their D.N.A. change to suit? If they committed a crime as a human and then hid away as an animal for years but someone suspected and managed to gain some hair or a skin tissue sample and test it, would it be a match for their D.N.A. in human form? I suspect not, after all, D.N.A. makes you what you are and an animal and a human have enough differences in their strands to make them into separate species . . .'

At this point Sirius had made his presence felt in the doorway and had asked Severus whether in his studies he had worked out what his own species was and the moment had been broken with traded insults. Arthur had been quite disappointed, however, he had done some of his own research on the matter (mostly from watching Muggle T.V. shows, he had a small set hidden away in his shed that George had given him on the sly for one of his birthdays,) and he had to agree that the practices made a lot of sense. They would certainly have helped in the matter at hand.

In the distance he heard the lift and Madame Hopkirk gave a start and looked up like a dog on alert. As the small party of Minister, Aurors and Prisoner approached she uttered 'Well'?

And the Minister gave a discreet nod back to her as Harry Potter came forwards with his arm around his godfather, and Arthur, his feelings in even more of a mess, steeled himself and rose to welcome Sirius back into the land of the living.


	14. That Which Doesn't Break You

Warning: Some readers may find this next bit upsetting or offensive. I re-iterate that the views expressed by the characters are far from my own, and that I have held back on putting in what I personally feel is the most offensive word even though I believe that its use would have been liberal in a situation and setting such as this.

I don't own Harry Potter.

**Chapter 14**

_'Come along, my ducky, come and help me decorate the tree.'_

_'Mother, I'm seventeen. And besides, I'm going out with some of the lads soon'._

_'Stephen, you are never too old to decorate the tree. You used to love doing it when you were younger . . . '_

_'What's with calling me Stephen? I've asked you to stop that, it's not my name, you're only doing it because . . . '_

_'Stephen, luv . . '_

_'MY NAME'S SEVERUS! NOT STEPHEN, FOR FUCKS SAKE! YOU SHOULD KNOW, YOU BLOODY INSISTED . . . '_

_'What's going on here, now? Why are you swearing at your ma?'_

_'Tobias, love, it's fine, he's just . . .'_

_'He's just an arrogant twat, that's what he is. Isn't that right, lad?'_

_'No more than you are, you drunk bastard.'_

_'Oh, really. Care to repeat that?'_

_'Tobias, please . . .'_

_'STAY OUT OF IT, WOMAN!'_

_'DON'T TREAT HER LIKE THAT!'_

_'YOU GONNA STOP ME, LAD? C'MERE THEN AND SHOW ME THAT I DOAN' HAVE SUCH A PONCING NANCY FOR A SON! LAUGHING STOCK OF THE TOWN YOU MAKE ME!'_

_'Eh, Toby, everything all right in here?'_

_'Yeah Johnno, just teaching my boy some manners.'_

_'Eric, hey, get in here, job needs a doing! He being a little shithead again? Hey boy, you being disrespectful to your old man?'_

_'He's being disrespectful to his ma, more like.'_

_'No wonder, the little faggot. You wanna be a girly, eh boy? He's like one of those poncy rock stars, must think he's Bowie I reckon, with those clothes and hair.'_

_'Doan' forget that posh accent, Johnno , and all them big words he uses all fancy like.'_

_'Oh, yeah, he does think his too good for this family, always has the little ponce, it really takes the piss.'_

_'Hey Toby, whadda you reckon we take him down the town and show him off? Might be able to get some profit out of him.'_

_'YOU FUCKING STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU BASTARD'_

_'EH GIRLY, C'MERE MY UGLY NANCY'_

_'GRAB HIS LEGS, ERIC!'_

_'WHAT THE FUCK, THREE AGAINST TWO? WHAT, YOU SCARED OF . . . HEY, STOP, FUCK OFF!. . .'_

_'HOLD HIS ARMS BEHIND HIS BACK, ERIC!'_

_'GRAB HIS LEGS, JOHHNO, STOP HIM KICKIN!'_

_'Hold him fast for a second, lads, whilst I remove his 'magic'. Stop struggling, boy. Ahh, here it is, your little stick . . . .'_

_'Give it back!'_

_'Not fuckin likely. I'm not having a namby prancing son who waves a stick around like a complete tosser anymore. Onto the fire with this, then. And now, me little bastard, time to teach you some respect . . .'_


	15. New Year, New Term

I don't own Harry Potter.

**Chapter 15**

'Ah, Simon you div! Gimme it back!'

Prytia squealed in mock outrage as she tried to grab the ESPO catalogue that her colleague had just nicked from her and was now holding over his head, daring her to reach up and grab it.

'Stephen, don't just sit there, help me!' Miss Forsyth giggled and tried jumping up again. 'Stephen!'

'Please don't injure yourself again.' Mr Prince kept his back turned and his focus on the spreadsheet he was updating. The first two days back at work after the Christmas/New Year's break were always Inset days at Tate Academy. For the old hands this generally meant prep work after the usual 'welcome back' motivational speech and the occasional bout of getting up to date and legal on matters such as safeguarding and e-safety. Stephen had worked for most of his holidays and he still had a list as long as his arm to complete before classes started on Wednesday.

Simon handed Prytia back the catalogue and she plonked herself down to start the satisfying activity of ordering whiteboard markers, Post-It notes in rainbow colours and various other paraphernalia needed in order to efficiently run a modern classroom. Occasionally she would ask the others whether they needed a particular item.

Catherine came bustling in fresh out of a Senior Leadership meeting, her arms loaded with folders. 'Faculty meeting, in half an hour. My room. Let the others know.' She sailed out again.

'Someone's in a mardy. Bet it means some fun procedures the top have come up with for us in their infinite wisdom' commented Simon, leaning against one of the desks. At that point Tom came in and the two of them began a conversation, occasionally teasing Prytia, who giggled rather than giving them any stick back. Feeling thoroughly disrupted and fearing he would be unable to concentrate any further in the immediate future, Stephen rose and left to go to the toilet before the meeting.

He stopped in at the staffroom to check his pigeonhole, one payslip, a student's homework, a few Christmas cards that he hadn't picked up before the holidays. Other staff members engaged him in polite conversation, asking whether he'd had a good holidays (o.k. thanks), whether he had gone anywhere (no) and was his Christmas haul good (a few things). Some ragged him about being drunk at the pub (Stephen mumbled that he had had a migraine, that he hadn't been intoxicated, but already it had been woven into the annals of popular co-worker myth as such and as such it would remain), others tried to catch him up with the gossip (which he wasn't interested in but indulged because old habits of learning information die hard), and as he turned and made for the door in order to get back to Science and attend the faculty meeting he almost bumped into more colleagues coming in and chatting with each other about their workload. Stephen was happy to get out of there, he hated too many people, always had done, and it was something that was definitely getting worse now that he was older.

He remembered how he used to feel like an oddity because sometimes being around loads of others, such as in the Slytherin common room, the dining hall for supper or in the stands watching Quidditch, he found he had a strong urge to escape all of the people. He imagined it was similar to what claustrophobia would feel like, and had never shared the fact that crowds made him feel anxious, that was except with . . .

Stephen had been shaped and encouraged in his upbringing that if a threat was present, the best thing to do about it was to hide. As a child this had often meant in the wardrobe under an old blanket, as he grew older the attic was the place of choice, behind the boiler if he was particularly desperate. Of course, in Hogwarts there had been any number of places where he could have continued with this behaviour, but by that stage he was starting to feel stronger and more confident. He was a Wizard, the fact that he had received his Hogwarts entrance letter had proved it. He was a Wizard in the strongest Wizarding house of all and he had to start acting like it. And of course he was going to marry Lily, she wouldn't want a soft husband, she would want a manly and powerful Wizard who would be ready to stand up to anything. Thus his thinking had run and without his family in the immediate vicinity to put him back in the box as it were, Severus had reclaimed the Wizarding name his mother had first given him (before his father had stated his objection to 'that fancy soap opera shit' in no uncertain terms and had made doubly sure that the nurse taking the baby's details down had listened to him and not his fool of a wife), and had started to let about in his house common room who his family were in Pureblood terms.

Because of this resolve, Severus had found out almost by accident that to hide in plain sight was often the best plan, and he had developed a type of rudimentary, unpolished Occlumency to control his feelings of agitation, to block out the presence of others in his mind and to trick it into thinking all was calm, to appear to others what he felt was 'normal'.

With his current associates, even though none of them knew Legilimency he still needed to practice that basic shielding of his mind, and after a two week period of not being social at all, the only contact being when he needed to go to the shops, Stephen felt particularly vulnerable.

And now, surrounded by others and their greetings and interest, Stephen again felt the odd feeling that had been cropping up throughout the holidays just passed. And he had enough self-awareness to recognise it for what it truly was and face up to it.

It was a feeling he had always felt, but when he was younger he had kept believing that one day it would all change. Now he was too old to set his life on a different course and he knew that unless you were particularly lucky life kept dealing you the same shitty blows until you died.

Stephen, in amongst his colleagues and those who actually rather liked him, was lonely and could no longer keep hiding the fact from himself. So, being the man that he was, he responded to this revelation by clenching his jaw and putting his head up a little higher. That was what would have been seen on the outside, but what was not visible was Severus mentally grabbing his feelings and stuffing them down, far away, into a little shadowy corner of his mind where they would not bother him or remind him of their existence. Then Stephen Prince would go about his business as if nothing had ever happened.


	16. One Little Word

O.K., so I'm thinking that maybe a little schoolyard insults compilation might tickle your fancy, so here are some mild insults you may come across if you're in the U.K. Generally, you can use these affectionately or as a mild rebuke. If you're a school-child, calling someone a 'div' may land you in a fight and/or in a teacher's office, unless it was said affectionately to a friend.

'You div!'

'That's divvy!'

(or, 'I can't believe it, I'm such a div!')

'Ehrgh, that's groovy' (this is said in a negative sense)

'Mardy pants!'

'Eh you doughnut'

'You're such a cabbage'

'Daft muppet'

'Numpty!'

(I don't own Harry Potter)

**Chapter16**

Mr Prince thought he had misheard the first time.

It was February and Term 4 was in full swing. His year 9 class were studying Environmental Chemistry and, after a starter of matching key words with definitions, he had divided them into four groups and given each team an aspect of global warming that they would have to debate about. Hopefully by the end of the activity his students would be better versed in the debates and opinions surrounding global warming as a concept and would have begun the process of making up their own mind.

They were almost halfway through the lesson, some students more on task than others. Mr Prince walked up and down the classroom, checking in with the groups, suggesting directions that they may want to look into, confirming or correcting various suppositions and in general helping make sure that independent learning was indeed taking place amongst those who were uninterested.

A slightly heated-in-a-friendly-way debate was going on over at one of the tables and Mr Prince started to casually move in that direction just in case a reminded was needed regarding classroom etiquette.

'Yeah, but look here, right. It's cows, isn't it. If we got rid of all the cows . . .'

'No, I'm telling you, cows ain't the problem, mate. It's a proven fact that global warming's not caused by cows.'

'Ok you two, shut it. So, we've got transport, that's one, and umm . . .'

'Deodorant.'

'Er, deodorant doesn't cause global warming you doughnut'.

'Yeah it does. And hairspray.'

'No you idiot, it were stuff in the cans.'

'Yeah, deodorant.'

'No, it weren't that, it was . . . I can't think of the word. We did it in Primary, you remember?'

'And you're calling me dumb.'

'Geez Sarah, you're such a muggle'.

'Whatever!'

Mr Prince felt time suddenly freeze. His stomach gave a jolt and turned over, his breathing became constricted, his body stiffened. His eyes narrowed, fixing intently on the little huddled group that were still deep in discussion. Surely not? Surely he had misheard due to all of the clamour that was going on in the room. Though as far as he knew his hearing was as it should be. Either that, or maybe it was a new insult that had suddenly become popular, the students were always following trends that they got from goodness knows where. It might just be accident that it was the same word as . . . well, English was a strange language and the same word could often mean different things.

As a scientist, Mr Prince had learnt to listen to his gut feelings. As a human being experiencing life, he had found out that often his gut was right, but research was needed to come to the right conclusion and therefore the right outcome. To jump in to something before checking was foolish, not that the current situation was life-threatening. But there was no point in making a mountain out of a molehill, and it was bad practice to ignore the molehill if it was full of fire ants. . .

Stupid analogy, Stephen, he thought to himself as he walked slowly to the front of the classroom. It was time for the mini-plenary to take place to make it evident that progress (and by extension, according to the Government, learning) had taken place. He started to speak, but though whatever it was that he said did make sense to the students, though questions were asked and answers given on both sides, his mind really wasn't there. It was doing what it always did when there was a puzzle to be solved, a problem that needed sorting.

Once, when he had gone around to Lily's house (he must have been about ten he reckoned) he had found her quite aggrieved at a gift she had received from an aunt. It had been a jigsaw puzzle of about 1,000 pieces and Lily, not being patient at the best of times had not been impressed. He, however, had expressed his enthusiasm, there had been a 500 piece puzzle at his primary school in the library and he had spent many lunchtimes trying to put it together before the bell rang.

This puzzle had been of a mountain, probably in Switzerland or Austria or something, and it had had a lake and a field in the foreground and sky in the background. In other words, lots of quite flat blue bits, and randomly textured grey and green bits.

Lily had given him the puzzle before suggesting they go outside to play some game or another, and that night, after having his tea and making sure his father was thoroughly engaged with the T.V., he had gone upstairs to his room and had begun to carefully sort out the pieces into piles on the floor.

The point was, he had enjoyed the challenge of putting the picture together with nothing much to go by except minute changes in colour and matching of shapes. It was something that he had found himself doing ever since, if only in a metaphorical sense, and he still did get satisfaction from figuring things out.

Mr Prince decided at that moment not to enquire any further into the seemingly new insult, it was best to let it go and see what happened next.

Besides, he admitted to himself deep down, there are some things that perhaps you really didn't want to know the answer to.


	17. When Punishing Others Punishes You

'Pardon me for saying so . . .'

'O.K., that's a preface to something sarcastic.'

'How very presumptuous of you. I was only going to say . . . do you not perhaps think that maybe you're a little influenced, perhaps a little, shall we say, excited about the return of Sherlock?'

'Umm. What makes you say that?'

'The cloak and dagger direction you have started to go in. You're making me sound like a detective on the case.'

'Oh, and have I also made you sound irascible and unreasonable and a loner . . .'

'You forgot intelligent. And no, I will not learn to play the violin.'

'Poisons, forensics, espionage, English. Hey, I never thought before that you and Sherlock have so much in common!'

'We don't. And besides, Sherlock Holmes is a _fictional_ character'.

'Who's your Watson then? Shall I make it Sirius?'

'Don't. You. Dare.'

'Oh dear, the arms have gone folded, I'm scared. Anyway, I don't think you're like Sherlock. Neither the real one or the Cumberbatch one. And I've known Sherlock for ages longer than I've known you, I should know. Hey, are you saying you use mind enhancing drugs then too, to deal with _your _periods of ennui?'

'Only on Thursdays, if you _really_ must know. Is ennui what they call marking endless parades of unspeakable workbooks these days?'

'Argh, school. Don't remind me.'

'I win.'

'I'm going to watch some _Life on Mars. _I'll see you round'.

'Just don't forget those SOWs that need doing . . .or those reports . . . or'

'_BYE'_

_(I don't own Harry Potter) (i might call him Sheldon Cooper next to see how he reacts to that)._

'I heard that!'

**Chapter 17**

A week on from the first incident of 'Mugglegate' and now Mr Prince swore that he was starting to hear the word everywhere. It was beginning to make him feel quite twitchy.

Come Period 5 on a Friday, Stephen had set his class an assessment task which theoretically meant no talking allowed (a concept that was harder to enforce than to give ruling on). As his head was in pain from blocked up sinus, courtesy of the latest generously shared collective school cold, this had been somewhat arranged on purpose.

He took off his new glasses (he suspected these also were contributing to his headache, even though it was because of eyestrain that he had finally caved in to his body and gone to the optometrist in the first place) and rubbed his face, making sure he massaged along the lines of the sinus passages.

Soon, very soon, he would be at home, maybe sitting in his favourite armchair by his study fire, a cup of tea in hand (or maybe some whiskey), dozing and listening to some music perhaps. He wished he was there now. He really, really wished he was there now. He also wished that he had not run out of some of the ingredients for Pepperup Potion, not being able to instantly relieve his symptoms was another inconvenience with which he had become re-acquainted, for acquiring ingredients was now a difficult task.

Finally the bell went for the end of the day, most of the students had been ready to go for the last ten minutes to be honest and had been trying to sneak on their coats in order to bolt out the door as quickly as possible. But they knew better than to actually stand up or walk from their desks before their teacher's say-so, Sir would give you a detention for that as quick as. You would be sorting through piles of equipment in the Science store room before you knew it, and rumour had it that there was a plastic tray full of screws of different sizes and types that was saved for those students who particularly decided that they wanted to cross the boundaries for some reason, hundreds and thousands of them, all waiting to be sorted. No-one had actually found out for certain, however, as tempting and fun as the activity sounded.

'Please make doubly sure that you have put your name on your paper. Please, I say this every time and there is always still – Ladies over there! I hope you have been listening to what I'm saying. Well be quiet please, I'm talking! You all know the score, if there is a paper without a name that person gets zero, Matthew, I hope you have your name down on your paper. No? Good thing I reminded you then! No Jacob, you cannot "just go now". In fact, if that's your attitude you can stay behind another five minutes. Right, this table at the front, you can go, uh, Katrina, what do you think you're doing? That's not your table! You too can join Jacob and stay behind for five minutes, no, don't "oh Sir" me. Sit down now please, you too, Jacob, I didn't say you could stand up, no, I don't want to hear it. O.K., this other front table can go . . . '

Finally the classroom was devoid of students and Stephen picked up his markbook and laptop and the pile of assessment papers that he had made Jacob and Katrina collect and headed towards the Science offi . . um . . . cupboard. Here he found his wishes for a quick departure had been thwarted whilst he had been toiling away teaching. A Friday night piss-up had been organised, Simon was happy to inform him, and the usual crew were going.

Normally Stephen joined these excursions, he actually enjoyed the regulars that participated and as they tried to all make them an average of twice a month they didn't make him feel too obligated to attend any other activities that he was then offered an invitation to (even the Anne Summers party that one of the ladies had asked them all to once, several of the men did go, but collectively pawing over lingerie, and doing it in front of those who would wear it no less, just wasn't his cup of tea).

Tonight, however, he had a date with home and, after politely declining the outing, Simon then informed him that Paula had told him to tell Stephen that she was going, which basically meant that now he didn't have a lift home unless he went to the pub.

It really wasn't an issue, every now and then Paula or his self wanted to stay back for some reason and then he would have to catch the bus home. It was a forty minute journey door to door (not counting the waiting at the bus stop if it was late), still, they were regular, every twenty minutes or so. With home beckoning so invitingly, Stephen packed his battered black leather satchel and with a good bye and wishes of a good night out to Simon, he headed for the nearest stop.

Though the days were definitely getting longer the long twilight had already set in, and there was a chill in the air which belied the knowledge that Spring was just around the corner. Stephen pulled his scarf a little closer around his neck and started to read the text messages on his mobile, which only numbered two, one from Paula telling him what Simon had, and one from his dentist's surgery, reminding him of his check-up Monday afternoon.

The small bus shelter filled with people eager to get home, huddling in together to try and stay warm as the sun dipped further below the horizon and the surrounding buildings cast deeper shadows. Nearby two teenage girls were having a rather loud conversation.

'So, you watching that programme tonight, yeah?'

'Yeah, course I am, like, everyone's gunna'.

'Yeah, it might be well groovy though'.

'That guy on it, he looks fit'.

'Which one? There's that old one and that one with the glasses and that other one, and aren't the rest chicks?'

'Nah, that one with the brown hair. You know, and the accent'.

'That chick with the blonde hair is hot, I'd do her!'

'Whatever! I know you fancy Conrad well hard.'

Their conversation drifted onto other topics and Stephen, who had only heard with half and ear and a quarter of his brain out of habit, began to draw out the correct money for his bus fare.

It was the next Monday morning when things in his lately very stable life started to slowly slide sideways and become slightly off balance.

At 8.30 a.m. he was present Mr Prince stood outside his classroom door and made sure his form were in a straight, quiet line outside of it. As they trooped inside, he vetted each one for jewellery, nail polish, makeup, oversized hair ornaments, trousers tucked into socks, non-regulation shoes or trousers, for coats to be off, etc. In general, none of his form were ever silly enough to try anything on, they had quickly learnt in Year 7 when they had first met him that Mr Prince was rather strict, followed the school rules to the letter and was not afraid to punish those who did not respect any of this. Now that they were in Year 9, they filed in quietly, took their assigned places and began their five minutes of silent reading.

Mr Prince, in the meanwhile, called the register, with each student affirming that they were there with a 'yes, Sir' if physically present.

Today, however, there was a slight disturbance up the back and it was not paying any attention to Mr Prince's increasingly intense looks. Spotting that the girls had a magazine rather than what he would consider a 'proper book' he fixed them with his most 'persuasive' look.

'Klaudija. Maddison. Chloe. Please come up the front. Now. And bring that magazine with you.'

For a moment it looked like they would rebel, but deciding submission was the safer option they came forward, handed over the magazine (and their mobile phones as Mr Prince had spotted Maddison using hers) and then asked when would they get it back.

'Here, or in the Science Office. At the end of the day.'

'But Sir! My mum has to ring me, she needs to tell me whether I'm going my Nan's this afternoon!'

'And I can't come back, I've got a Dr's appointment!'

Mr Prince was not moved. 'And I've got a dentist's appointment, and yet here I'll be, waiting for you to pick up your goods should you still so wish to retain ownership of them.'

'Huh? What?'

Sir sighed. 'Return at the end of the day to pick up your things or I'll sell them tonight on E-bay.' The girls instantly began to shrilly protest and on the outside it would seem like he was ignoring it, however, on the inside he was smirking. He may have had to have learnt new ways to control and dismay students, but he still had it. They were so much fun to wind up.

It was almost the last five minutes of registration and he still hadn't read out the notices. He had written them in his diary which happened to be under the magazine that he had just confiscated. Going to shift it, the cover caught his eye. There was a photograph on the cover of a group of people. An impossible group of people, a group that had individuals in it that shouldn't be anywhere near a Muggle magazine.

Harry and Ginny Potter stood there looking as groomed as cinema stars. Viktor Krum was dressed in his Quidditch uniform, Arthur Weasley smiled excitedly, Fleur Delac . . ., um, no, _Weasley_ looked as impossibly beautiful as ever and then at the back . . . no. No fucking way. What the fucking hell was this?

Mr Prince felt himself go pale, his palms grew sweaty and his stomach started to feel queasy. At the back of the photo, laughing, looking groomed and smartly dressed and confident, was the Curr. Sirius Fucking Black.

Severus Snape felt life once again pulling him into a direction that he didn't want to go.


	18. Magazines with the Minister

I apologise if my preambles have started to become too long, for the last chapter I will blame the mulled wine I was drinking at the time. I find the intros are a way of warming me up and getting me into character, and I like graphic novels and shows which have that random, bizarre element, in this case it's like breaking the fourth wall. However, I'll endeavour to keep them short in the future if I feel the need to add them in.

**Chapter 18**

'_The show was rather disjointed due to it clearly having no idea what sort of entertainment it was meant to be. The whole joined together in a cacophonous mess, clearly this was a case of television designed by committee. The most disappointing this is that it was on the BBC when it appeared to be more the kind of thing that would be shown on other stations that are more inclined to indulge in sensationalism_ . . . Kingsley, what is this crap? I have the feeling that our great plan may not seem so great after all. At least, that's what I'm getting from this Muggle newspaper. The bits I can understand that is, I think I need Arthur to translate some of it.'

Sirius Black uncrossed his legs and slid them off their current position on the coffee table in the casual meeting room. He and the Minister were surrounded by various paper-based media items, all focusing on The Project. Except that is wasn't called The Project in the media, they called it by its Muggle name, _Another World_.

The U.N., both the Muggle and Wizarding factions, had finally come to an agreeance regarding how they were going to start introducing Muggles (a word that the Muggle U.N. officially refused to use) to the fact that some humans could do magic, and it would be nice if all people could sort of live together on the earth not having to hide who they really were . . . well, that was the essence of the project in a highly simplistic nutshell. It was agreed without being said that human nature being as it was the introduction of the idea that some people were magic was not going to create rainbows and light. But it was information that the rulers of the world on both sides of the fence thought it was important for the general population of the earth to know.

The Project had been in the minds of the U.N. and their member nations' governments for around fifty years. In the following years schemes were developed and discarded, time lines were made and not adhered to, deadlines loomed and passed. There always seemed to be events that made the reveal of such news to the public seem like a bad idea. World War II was still very much in the public conscious, governments changed, man landed on the moon for the first time, Roswell became a favourite topic of those seeking the fantastic and the unknown. In the 60s and 70s people were encouraged to loosen up and explore the very nature of what it meant to be a being on the planet called earth. It was felt that if such information was released amongst such times that either the population would panic or they would take it as a joke. No world government wanted to be taken as a joke.

Of course, in the 70s the wizarding world was also very busy with the First Wizarding War, a matter which took up most of their concentration. By the time the 80s came around the magical community around the globe were metaphorically licking their wounds, grieving and regaining their strength. Although the main epicentre of the occurrence had been the U.K., there had still been factions and sympathisers in other countries who had become more and more active as the balance of power seemed to tip towards Voldemort.

Then the Second Wizarding War occurred, and afterwards when Kingsley Shacklebolt had been made the Minister of Magic he had vowed to himself that the project would go through whilst he was in leadership and hopefully it would educate both Muggles and Wizards in understanding and tolerance, something which was badly needed after Voldemort's views had been so, um, _publicly_ expressed.

The presentational package that had finally been decided on was a T.V. show, the thinking behind this was that Muggles liked T.V. (the 'Muggles' on the project had really objected to being lumped into a box labelled with a name they felt sounded slightly derogative). Reality shows were still quite big though the questions were being asked by some of the watching public as to whether they were scripted or not.

Because of this ambiguity inherent in the format it was thought by those whose job it was to decide such things that it would be a good base vehicle for the initial introduction to the general public of a rather unbelievable concept. The U.K. was chosen for the test launch of the programme mainly because Harry Potter was English. In the Wizarding world, Harry was still considered the 'Chosen One' and he held a huge amount of caché.

Hermione Weasley had expressed strong reservations regarding taking this direction. 'It's rather, well, forward, don't you think?' she queried in a preparation meeting held once the course of action had been given the green light. 'I mean, people will get confused. They won't know whether it's a joke or not. We'll become a laughing stock. And when they do realise that it's real, they'll be really angry. They'll think we were trying to pull the wool over their eyes. I just don't think it's the right way to present ourselves, it won't make a good impression.'

Despite these and similar objections from others, the first show had been taped. In it the chosen ambassadors from the wizarding world went to various places to talk to Muggles about how they might react to certain scenarios and how they would feel if magic was 'real' in the world. They interviewed Muggles who had married witches or wizards with and without knowing it, they played practical jokes on Muggles that only worked with magic (the jokes, not the Muggles) but were thought by them (again the Muggles) to be sophisticated magicians tricks. Wizarding kit was discussed and Quidditch was introduced. The show was edited down to an hour, with extras for showing on the online website made to accompany it, and then the BBC were persuaded to schedule it in a primetime slot for the launch.

'Well, it was a sort of a test run' said Kingsley, picking up another magazine and flicking through it. 'We can re-jig the format a little. It's got elements people liked, people were interested. They'll put it on another channel more suited and we'll show more Viktor Krum and Fleur, and actually, yourself.' Here Kingsley gave a bit of a grin and saw a slight spark of pleasure light up in Sirius' eyes. It was gone just as quickly. Sirius had discovered that some major changes had occurred whilst he was through the veil, and a lot of them had shocked and saddened him. Though he threw himself into the project and gave everything he was asked to, those who knew him well could see that he was grieving quite hard.

Still, because of the fact that Sirius hadn't lost any time at all, he was still thirty-six and retained the natural charisma that he had been born with, whether he was sad or not. The camera loved him, the leaders on The Project had been very happy to have Sirius and Fleur and Viktor as eye candy.

Yes, they would now go on a wide scale campaign, saturating Muggles with the idea that magic could actually exist, and slowly and softly start to reveal it. Finally the two factions, Muggles and Wizards, would be aligned. Kingsley smiled and relaxed back in his chair. Everything was going nicely to plan.


	19. The Wizard and the Wand

_Note: Whilst doing some research for this chapter I came across the symbolism of bats, both in Native American and Chinese culture. There are some rather interesting and pertinent ideas there that may be of interest._

_The 'Clary Sage and Black Pepper' combination was made up by an internet friend of mine about seven years ago, we were all pitching in on the topic of what Severus would smell like (it sounds odd now, perhaps you had to be there!) and she being a pharmacist came up with this response. I have personally found the combination soothing myself, though be warned, if you do use clary sage essential oil use only a little, too much takes right over and not everyone likes it, it's a bit of an 'acquired taste'. _

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 19**

Severus Snape was seated at his large mahogany desk in his study. His curtains were open but the dark street outside was not visible due to the condensation on the window's glass, a testimony to the temperature still being rather low.

In his study, however, Severus had lit a cheerful fire in the small grate. The scented kindling he had used wafted a herbal smell in the air, cinnamon could be detected and a touch of anise. He had put some clary sage on to burn as well. Though commonly used for the ritual of 'cleansing', Severus had found early on in his exploration of potions ingredients that its scent soothed him, so much so that he often put a few dabs of it on his handkerchief (and previously his neckerchief) with a smidgeon of black pepper to give it a little bit of 'lift'.

Despite the fire and the scents Severus did not feel either cheerful or any calmer. His research during the day had opened up for him a bigger can of worms than he had ever wanted to come across again, and he now felt wrong-footed and unsure.

In front of him on the desk he had laid his wand. For the past hour he had been staring at it and letting memories drift randomly through his mind. Occasionally he would pick it up. He would re-study the sigils on the hilt and wonder once again whether Ollivander had meant them to be Chinese or Celtic-Roman in origin, whether the wand would behave differently without them, what they had to do with him seeing as that wand chose him as its master. Or partner, really, it was a strange relationship a Witch or a Wizard had with their wand, it being inanimate and yet strangely alive all at once.

Occasionally he would begin thinking about the latest circumstances, his mind always going around in circles and over the same patterns.

_What by Merlin was Kingsley thinking? Had he been thinking? At all? And the Wizengamot? They hadn't seen fit to put a stop to this?_

He picked up his wand again, looking at how the black wood shone in the firelight, feeling its balance in his hand. He spread his forefinger out under the main body of it just in front of the hilt to give it support, his other fingers curled elegantly over the grip's top but only touching it enough to give it some balance and to help direct it, rather like how a violinist would hold their bow but upside-down.

And yet he did not use it.

He remembered that day in Ollivanders, like to all witches and wizards the first visit there and subsequent purchase was a special event that was considered a milestone.

Severus had not, however, been able to join in with this coming-of-age activity alongside his peers. He remembered how excited Lily had been before she went, how they had discussed it and he had tried to calm her worries that she would discover that she wasn't magical after all, that no wand would work for her and that she would be laughed out of the shop and Diagon Alley. Of course nothing of the sort had happened, Lily had rushed to their spot in the park as soon as she could the day after with a slim navy blue box. Inside was an elegant wand made of willow, the same trees that they were under that very moment by the canal.

'It was amazing, Sev!' she had informed him as they looked at the precious item still nestled in its protective velvet surrounds. 'I went through about ten wands I reckon, I almost gave up except that things did happen with some of them, one had a little shower of sparks, another knocked a chair over – oh, and Sev, you should have seen the place! There were all of these boxes of wands EVERYWHERE! It was fantastic, you kept wondering which one Mr Ollivander would choose to get for you to try next, and you would see ones that you were like, "oh, I'd like to try that red box" just to see what's inside. It was sort of like Christmas!'.

Severus had heard a similar description of the same experience from his mother when he was younger and she was not so reticent about 'those sorts of things'. He and Lily had not played with the wand, they already knew that there were sanctions regarding use of underage magic, but they had practiced some stances and arm work with sticks.

'I do wish you could go and get a new wand too' had been Lily's parting words to him that day.

Unfortunately, due to financial circumstances, Eileen had been forced to covertly scour the magical community for cheap second, third or even fourth hand supplies for her son's first year at Hogwarts. Throwing pride to the wind she put an advertisement in the 'Wanted' pages of the Daily Prophet and pinned up requests on the community notice-boards in both the Leaky Cauldron and the Wizarding Library (Main Branch). There was already a great deal of trouble in the household over Eileen's standing her ground over Stephen going to a Magical secondary school, let alone a grammar. Tobias was livid and had removed all access to the families' finances. He had tried to enforce his dictate that Stephen was not going, but it was the one battle Eileen was prepared to clash with him over.

So Severus (as he had always thought of himself anyway, knowing that was his Wizarding name) had some shabby robes that were too long for him (Eileen had taken them up with clumsy stitches, she had never been a sewer), tattered books that Severus loved none the less simply because they were what they were, a pewter cauldron and silver knife that Eileen had held onto from her school days, and finally, a battered yew wand, 10 ½ inches, with a core of Kelpie mane. His mother had tried to cheer him up over this, Severus had been rather disappointed that the wand's core was old and not very powerful, but as Eileen reminded him the English and the Yew had a special affiliation, the Bowmen of England were known as brave and true men who guarded their country well with their great longbows.

Still, when Tobias had destroyed it Severus had not been overly concerned. He was earning a fairly steady little income by that stage dealing in potions and homework, and the offspring of the rich families that made up the majority of Slytherin were eager for his particular brand of assistance.

He had asked Regulus and Narcissa to go with him that day and both eagerly agreed, a trip to Diagon Alley was always fun. Severus had felt his stomach tighten with anticipation as they approached the shop (the Floo journey had not helped, either, and Regulus had narrowly avoided being sick much to his embarrassment and his cousin's amusement). It was Narcissa who had confidently put her hand on the door and opened it as would a princess to whom nothing was denied, and, seeing Severus hang back out of sudden self-doubt, she stretched out her other hand towards him with an encouraging smile.

Garrick Ollivander had thought it most curious that there was a seventeen year old Hogwarts student who was only just now purchasing his first wand from the establishment, however, upon finding out who his mother was (Ah, yes, Eileen Prince, Silver Birch, Dragon Heartstring, 11 ¾) he understood the situation. The Wizarding world kept tabs on its own, and the choice of Eileen Prince to leave her illustrious purebred family and marry not just any Muggle, but a poor and violent one at that was rather well known.

It had transpired that the wand he had now, the one he had in front of him on his desk had been the seventh wand he had tried. After making his companions howl with laughter several times (trying to transfigure one of the wand's boxes into a hat box and instead ending up with a pile of wood shavings, accidentally taking of Regulus' eyebrows when another wand was carelessly flicked without testing for compatibility first) Ollivander had brought out a deep dark green box and had gently opened it to reveal the wand that was to become his.

Severus had felt a pull towards it even before he touched it. He had seen all sorts of wands from his time at Hogwarts, and compared to some of them this one was quite plain with minimal decoration. But neither was it rustic and 'natural' looking as others he had seen, it was straight and slim and most definitely shaped that way rather than following some stick's natural twists and turns.

'Here' Ollivander had said '13 1/2, Ebony, Unicorn tail hair core, good for defence spells, duelling and the like. Quite an interesting wood, that, ebony is getting harder and harder to come by.' He handed it to Severus hilt-first, making sure the young man's eagerly outstretched fingers had properly grasped it before letting go himself.

Severus felt the connection immediately. He had not felt this before, not with his old yew wand, neither with his mother's wand whenever she had let him have a small sneaky go before he was of age. He felt different somehow, complete, powerful. It was like suddenly he was alive. As Ollivander continued to rattle on about the properties of the wand, how Unicorn Tail was considered a 'softer' magical core but how the ebony wood strengthened and amplified it Severus gently levitated Regulus and then put back his eyebrows, he showered Narcissa in gold glitter and pink rose petals which made her laugh and ask for diamonds.

Ever since then it had always been on his person, and a good thing too as he would have been dead without it, several times over. He was capable of wandless magic, but it took more effort and energy than with a wand, and was harder to direct.

Even now, now he was for all intents and purposes a Muggle, he keep it in the inside breast pocket of his jackets or, if the day was too hot, in the travelling roll, locked up within easy reach behind the front desk and moved to his other desk when he exited the room.

He picked it up again and once more felt the connection, the feeling that he could do things with this wand that he could not do with another. He had sorely neglected it over the past decade, avoided it even.

Severus sighed and once again became lost in thought.


	20. Secrets

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 20**

_'Tell me a secret, Severus.'_

_'What sort of a secret?'_

_'Oh, I don't know. Something interesting.'_

_'An interesting secret. O.K., my favourite Sunday tea is baked beans on toast.'_

_'Erugh, I have no idea what that is but it sounds disgusting.'_

_'Really, it's not.'_

_'C'mon Sev, I mean a proper secret.'_

_'Telling secrets is a dangerous business, 'Cissa. Especially when the people telling them are quite, quite pissed.'_

_'Then maybe I won't remember in the morning . . .'_

_A summer's night, friends, a beach and a roaring fire. Most of the group had gone off for a little moonlight swim, others had found their way into the dunes and were going about their own private business there. Some, like Narcissa Malfoy and Severus Snape, were content to just sit and chat, the copious amounts of alcohol aiding this._

_That day several of them had officially finished their childhood schooling. They were now free to go their own ways in life, and to celebrate, the graduates of Slytherin had chosen to throw a bonfire BBQ on a remote beach in Cornwall. Several Ravenclaws had also been invited, as well as some of the Hufflepuffs that were considered less lame, though most had nailed their colours to the Gryffindor mast as per usual._

_The night was quite balmy, which made it extremely pleasant to be sitting around in shorts (which upon seeing a picture of that night in the future would make him realise had been a mistake, the 1970s were not good years for men's shorts) and short sleeves after the restricting feel of school uniform. Severus was staying with Regulus for the summer as he looked for digs in London that would be handy to his new apprenticeship. He had been extraordinarily lucky, Healer Amygdalin was notoriously picky with whom he took on and only one student per year was ever chosen. He was based at the Chelsea Physic Garde which had been started by Wizards in 1673. It was a popular attraction with Muggles, though very few knew of its magical history or continuing affiliations._

_Reg was off in the surf now, horsing around with Bella and Crabbe and Nott and the rest. He would not graduate until next year. Narcissa, looking pretty in her summer frock, lazily leaned against Sev's shoulder, both of them letting the buzz of the alcohol float through their systems._

_'You don't forget anything.' Sev informed her with a slow smile. 'You take it all in and people forget that you heard. Then you bring it out at an opportune time.' His arm was around her but he resisted the temptation to stroke her hair, that was the alcohol talking and he knew it. Besides, he needed to stay on Lucius' good side. Anyone else's wife and the silver-haired, would be Lothario would have said well done. Double standards, that was Lucius all over. Well, really, it was to be expected, that was Slytherin all over. How else does an ambitions person get to the top? Certainly not by playing fair!_

_Narcissa looked into his eyes for a moment before snuggling in a little tighter to the teenager she considered somewhere between a friend and a much wanted brother. Narcissa did better around men, to be honest all of the Black girls of her family had better relationships with men than with women. Though she was not sure that she would consider Bella's terribly healthy. Earlier on she had come running down the beach in a very skimpy swimsuit and asked whether anyone would like to play catch. Her long dark eyelashes had fluttered in a way she had thought endearing and it was clear that it was men only that she was inviting (stupid little June Havers from Hufflepuff did not understand this and was quite put out when the older woman seemed to ignore her signalling her willingness to participate). Meanwhile, Rodolphus had sulked, stupid man. He should have given her a dressing down right then and there in front of everyone, that would have shut her up. For a while at least. It was plain to Narcissa who had the upper hand in her oldest sister's marriage._

_'Go on' she urged him again, 'just one secret.'_

_He took another long drink of champagne, past the point of caring about hangovers. 'Well, last night . . .'_

_'Hmm?' urged Narcissa, lazily as if she wasn't truly interested, which she had found was a most effective way of encouraging people to confide in her. With Severus she did it out of habit._

_'Last night, I . . .' Here he tailed off again and this time he wrapped his arms about his knees and put his face into them. Narcissa instantly went into soothing mode, another thing she was very good at and, incidentally, another way she had found that was a powerful controller. _

_'Go on, Sev, its O.K.'. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him close. He grabbed hold of her arm fiercely, grateful of the contact of another human._

_'Last night, I Obliviated my mother. I sent her back to her family. She doesn't remember anything of the past years. . . 'Here he paused to gain control over his breathing again 'I had to do it. I wasn't there to protect her, he was getting worse, I don't know why he just hasn't left. And now, because of him . . .'_

_He tailed off again, staring down the beach away from Narcissa's direction, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. She carefully pulled him back against her again, letting him know he was not alone._


	21. Information Can Be A Pain In The Rear

_Thank you to everyone who has left reviews or otherwise engaged with the story in some way, you're very kind._

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 21**

In the space assigned to legal matters in the Ministry of Magic, Alicia Annancy (nee Spinnet) and Anthony Goldstein were going through what seemed like endless piles and boxes of papers, dating and sorting them.

'I swear, this is doing my head in!' Alicia exclaimed whilst frantically sorting through some piles to find a parchment fragment she 'swore I only just put down over there!'

'I sooooo know what you mean' sighed Anthony Goldstein. 'Here, I'll help, what are you looking for?

They were still searching fruitlessly when Cho Thompson (nee Chang) came in with another box. She did not look cheerful which the two interpreted to be a sign of bad portent, their theory was proved correct as Cho put the box down and tapped at it with her wand. Instantly the container divided and multiplied like cells performing mitosis. Or like popcorn, either would do. Whatever analogy you used it still ended up with the same outcome, they were screwed.

'We're not going to get out of this, are we?' enquired Alicia a little hysterically of her companions. We're going to be sitting here sorting through boxes of paper until we die . . . '

'Yeah, I didn't become an adult to do this!' chipped in Anthony. He sighed dramatically and faced Cho. 'Right, what was it they want us to do now?'

'Well, as I understand it . . .'

Cho never finished her instructions, she was interrupted by a rather small 'excuse me' coming from the doorway.

A rather sway-backed man stood there, he looked as if he would blow away in the slightest wind (that is, if the climate control magic went haywire again as it frequently did). He raised his head slightly and despite the crêpe-y translucent skin and the facial hair ensemble that he wore as if to hide behind rather than for a fashion statement he was still recognisable.

'Ah, Alicia, Cho, Anthony'. He nodded to each in turn. 'Good to see you again. Do you know where Harry Potter might be?'

On another floor in what was now known as 'the Green Room' and was really the section of the ministry now dedicated to producing '_Another World_' Hermione Weasley and Padma Patil were trying to have a serious conversation regarding legalities of production with Harry Potter and Sirius Black.

Trying was the operative word. Harry kept throwing a snitch around, his disinterest in the subject showing clearly on his face. Sirius wasn't much better, his feet were up on the desk and he was rocking his chair on two legs, his arms up behind his head.

'Hermione, listen.' Harry broke in on the newly appointed Head of Legal (Media)'s complex instructions regarding some aspects of the coming shoot. 'It's going to be O.K, honestly. We know what we're doing. We'll do what we're asked on the day.'

'Yes, Mrs Weasley, we're professionals.' Sirius chipped in with a laconic smile and a dismissive wave of the hand.

Padma, standing behind Hermione, shrugged and turned but the other witch had different ideas. Used to bossing Harry and Ron around she got straight into it, lashing them with her tongue. Harry quickly acquiesced but Sirius was made of different stuff and just laughed at her, telling her to 'loosen up'.

'And while you're at it, I think you've swallowed a legal library. Best take a laxative for that. It'll be painful, but worth it when you can communicate with your friends again without them scratching their heads at the bollocks coming out of your mouth.'

Hermione stood there in shock until Sirius' follow up of 'Catching flies, are we?' sent even more scarlet into her cheeks than before, she turned on her heal and made for the door, where she found her dramatic exit was blocked by a figure.

'Draco!'

The other two sat up instantly, wands started to become drawn so fast that there was barely time for Hermione and Padma to get in-between the men. To be fair, Draco did not draw his wand, Padma had the sense that he was trying to make a good impression.

'WILL YOU TWO JUST SIT BACK DOWN?!' Hermione bellowed, however Sirius remained standing with his wand out, Harry just behind albeit with his weapon lowered. She attempted to ignore both of them as she turned to Draco 'Good, um, good afternoon, Draco. Long time, no . . um . . .see' to which Padma added a soft 'Hello Draco'.

'What do you want, Malfoy?' Harry had come forwards again and was now trying to loom threateningly, what he lacked in height he now made up for in confidence in his own status.

'Actually, I came to talk to you.' Draco was being exceedingly polite, Padma wondered how much that was costing him, and whether it was genuine.

'I don't want to talk to traitors.' Harry folded his arms.

'Harry, you can't just say things like that' Hermione warned anxiously. She then quickly started to whisper in Padma's ear whilst Draco put out his hand to urge Harry to shake in truce. At this point Padma quietly excused herself and slipped from the room.

Harry looked his ex-arch-rival in the eye and slowly started to extend his hand, it was Sirius who grabbed it and pulled it back.

'No. He's a Malfoy.' Sirius almost spat the name as if it literally had left a bad taste in his mouth. The older man turned back to Draco. 'Harry won't be speaking with you. Leave. Now. And don't come back.'

Draco spent a moment looking around at the two faces for any sign of relenting and, when he didn't find any he gave a slight bow in polite acknowledgement of their time, said thank you to Hermione and went to go.

However, this time another figure was blocking the door. The Minister for Magic, all six foot two of him stood there. Behind glimpses of Padma could be seen, trying to find a viewpoint around him.

'Mr Malfoy. How nice of you to come for a visit. Please, come this way. Would you like tea or coffee?'

As Kingsley shepherded Draco away, Hermione gave one last venomous look at the two remaining men and followed them. Curious, and not to be outdone by his friend, Harry quickly left and followed them.


	22. Early Morning Philosophy With Coffee

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 22**

The following Saturday on from 'That Day', Severus was taking his morning quite slowly and was sitting in his kitchen bundled in his battered woollen navy and red tartan dressing-gown (his warmest one) and a mug of coffee in front of him.

To say that in the past week he had felt vexed and trapped was like . . . well, he couldn't think of an appropriate analogy, but he did know that he was using up his stocked supplies of herbs more rapidly than before. Skullcap, Nettle, Monkey Flower, Evening Primrose, Rosemary and of course Lavender. Spring was starting to show its face but it would be some time before he would be able to replant those that were not able to survive the winter.

Still, he was slightly comforted by the fact that no-one knew where he was. They did not even know he was alive. He knew that there had been a funeral service and all, the Ministry footing the bill and Harry Bloody Potter leading the charade, once again in the spotlight. Severus believed that the plan had been cooked up by him and Kingsley and personally he felt that it had been used as a distraction for the populace.

_'Look! The Villain was a HERO! And now he is DEAD, so we don't have to worry about him murdering us in our beds anymore, but he still is a HERO to the nation and should therefore be recognised with PARADES and BALLOONS and DANCING . . '_

Yes, well, he was rather cynical about it. He felt he had a right to be. You don't survive in politics very long without viewing everything with a healthy dose of _doubt_, coupled with a side shot of '_how will it benefit them?'_ i.e. '_their_ _motive_'.

He had not been to his grave site, feeling that that would be a) rather morbid after he had just cheated death (and slightly arrogant in his opinion) and b) O.K., he'd admitted at the time that he was ever so slightly superstitious. Despite being highly scientific regarding everything in life, it did feel that he might just be tempting fate by going to where he was supposedly meant to be laid in blissful eternal repose, and even if there was the slightest chance fate existed Severus didn't want to give it any more opportunities. The Universe had had quite enough chances to do him in, thank you very much, and now it could just bugger off.

The third reason was a more practical one, he did not want there to even be the slightest possibility that he would be recognised and then have to face the problems that would ensue on from such an event. To him it would be a disaster of major proportions, upsetting the delicate balance of his current life and the barriers he had put in place, physical, mental and emotional, in order that he could continue to, if not live in the fullest sense, then to at least exist.

Thankfully the attempts of the Wizarding world to 'launch themselves' (Severus now knew that in Muggle terms this was called 'Branding') seemed to have failed. After the first few heart-stopping days mention of it seemed to all but vanish and scouring the internet did not lead him to much more information than he already knew.

Were they going for the mysterious angle? He had viewed the episode online, a painful but necessary experience. As he had watched he had felt his lips tensing, the corners of his mouth pulling right down and the skin stretching across his cheekbones, seeing those people from before, from the world he had locked away, he had thought that the experience must have been similar to what Muggles felt when they saw ghosts.

Then again, it was not a totally unexpected move. Dumbledore had discussed the possibility of it with him several times over the years, he knew all of the debates for and against, he had also known, because of his affiliations, who deliberately blocked the progress of said plans in the Ministry. Dumbledore had wanted a different approach to this, he had known and counted amongst his associates several Muggle and Wizards/Witches-Posing-As-Muggle who had achieved success and favour in the public eye due to their literary efforts. The scheme Albus had wanted to put in place would have utilised some of these talents. He believed that the re-introduction of Wizards to Muggles would require a basic 'refresher' of magic being a possibility in the collective Muggle mind and culture. Therefore, the scheme Dumbledore had proposed and favoured suggested that one or more of these authors could chronicle sections of actual wizarding history in the form of fiction.

Severus still didn't believe that it was the best solution, but he thought it was certainly far superior to that steaming pile of hippogriff dung that had clearly suffered from multiple personality disorder and thus had died due to a sort of natural selection process. He briefly wondered what naturalists and philosophers would have to think about that idea, and then laughed internally at the idea that a few years ago he wouldn't have been thinking of that at all. If it had done only one thing, living in the adult Muggle world had broadened his mind and his love for academics had been able to flourish. He had not realised how closed off the Wizarding world was to change and new ideas. He knew about the physical inbreeding, of course (another reason why he knew that ultimately the Dark Lord's plan would fail, but if you valued your life you did not say as such to said personage, anyway, along with that massive ego and chip on his shoulder he had a distinct lack of understanding of the sciences), but he had not realised the mental stagnation caused.

The fact was that if you were a Muggle, or had Muggle in you, and somehow you found your way into Wizarding society, either by marriage or by an unexpected Hogwarts letter or such like event, due to the secrecy you became absorbed. Wizarding society influenced you, not the other way around. And, Severus had also noticed, most Muggles seemed to prefer it this way, looking at those with magic with starry eyes. Every culture had its tales of the Muggle meeting the Magical Being and then falling into trouble because of it. It was something that a lot of Wizarding folk took for granted and even found highly amusing.

The thing was, it gave them a sense of entitlement, whether they knew it or not. Whether they had protested against the Dark Lord's totally visible campaign or not, at least he had had the bottle to state what he was for, to own up to it.

Instead, what Severus had found, was that that sense of entitlement had shut down many avenues of potential thought and collaborations over the years.

'Hypocrite' he branded himself with a sigh as he got up from his small kitchen table to wash up his mug. 'Well, you might think these things, but are you going to do anything about it? I thought not.'

Right, there was the hoovering to be done and then he had half-yearly reports for Key Stage 3 to complete, better set the electric heater going on in the conservatory so it was warmed up in time for when he was ready.

With his mug washed and dried and the next few hours of his Saturday planned out, Stephen went purposefully to the broom cupboard.


	23. Every Child Matters

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 23**

The next few weeks were taken up with focus on Year 11 and making sure that they were very well prepped for their G.C. . The exams were scheduled to start in late May, however it was generally known that anything you tried to do with them after the Easter school holidays would have a decreased level of effectiveness. Especially since they knew that at some stage they would be let out for 'Study Leave' (or, as it was unofficially known, 'Year 11s Are Not Focused And Are Being A Pain In The Rear To Control So Let's Get Rid Of Them Because They Are Unsettling The Other Students Who Are In Turn Becoming Little Shi . . Um, Challenging).

Stephen did as he did every year and threw himself into the task. It was a time that he always found particularly frustrating. His expectations on himself as a teacher, always very high, felt constantly knocked against the reality of what actually was produced by the students.

This was compounded in a sense as it was how the government, and by extension school leadership, measured performance, and, as a result, many teachers felt hopeless and distressed in the spring.

'Natalie Cioren, you are meant to be revising Section Five in your revision pack' Stephen prompted sharply as he gave a quick walk around the class, dissuade them from going off task. 'Lorenzo Marshall, what have you done this period? Only that? Not good enough, Lorenzo'.

'I have been working, Sir!' was the inevitable outraged cry whenever Sir told them that they were lacking in this area. 'See!' They would point to their page where one or two copied paragraphs was clearly, in their eyes, justification of hard work for forty minutes. 'Oh, how divvy!' was always the inevitable response when Sir decided to disabuse them of this notion and reinforce the point with a detention.

The idea that your job performance was based on such antics was enough to make you cry. Especially when enforcing the detentions was a job in itself, if the student didn't want to go and walked away from whomever was sent to fetch them that was that. Oh, they could be hauled in front of the Head of Department, etc. but with nothing else in place the student just saw this as a moment of minor inconvenience.

Tate Academy, like many others across the country, took the 'all inclusive' approach. Students were not 'expelled' for particularly bad misdemeanours as they would have been in the past. At worst, after several chances and behaviour management strategies, the troubled student may be given a 'managed move' to another school or to a special educational establishment that would be based more around giving the student life and social skills and could tailor programmes to the individual. Such places, however, were now quite rare because of lack of funding, and because of policies that felt students should all be in together and learn to tolerate one another, etc.

This incidentally also lead to Special Education Needs (SEN) students with quite diverse needs going to their local school. Whilst this was successful with some students, (those with only mild needs), and the theories behind were nice, it more often lead to stress on everyone involved. The student was stressed because the teacher could not be sitting by them during the whole class to explain every little step, the class were stressed because often the pace during a lesson was slowed right down for the student in question, and the teacher was stressed because they were required to make their lesson accessible for all students and therefore 'differentiate' their resources, print out starters so those that needed it could just stick it in their books, and in general deliver a lesson to a class of around twenty five to thirty students all with a huge variation of abilities.

It wasn't that teachers didn't think it was a good idea, it was a time factor issue. A lot of teachers wished that they had a Personal Assistant, it was quite hard to cope with everything you were expected to do. But try telling the policy makers that.

It frustrated the teachers, though, because they would have to put up with the student's bad behaviour and often abuse for quite some time before something was done, and sometimes nothing was really done at all, the student was generally given a 'slap on the wrist' and asked to admit that their behaviour was not what was expected.

And then you were done over if your students did not reach their personal government assigned target grade.

Well, of course the teachers would complain, they were lazy after all, not used to hard graft and got far too much money for what they did. And all of those holidays! Put them in a real job, see how they do then!

Still, Stephen had to admit that this job was less life threatening than his old one.

Mr Prince's students knew that he would be relentless in chasing them down if they did not show enough effort in studying, and indeed, he instilled this in them from Year 7. One of the most frustrating things Stephen had come across whilst starting his new career was that students did not seem to think that they were supposed to remember what they went through in class. Mr Prince's classes found out the hard way that he expected them to remember, all right, and that he expected them to be able to use what they had learnt in previous years to help inform their further learning on particular topics.

'Sir, Sir, can I move? Ben's making faces at me! It's doing my head in, I can't concentrate'.

'Yeah, well, she's throwing paper at me. Look, Sir, look what she threw. It's bang out of order, Sir.

'Yeah, well you chucked it first!'

'I did not!'

'Quiet, both of you, or you'll be staying back at lunch.'

'But I didn't do anything!'

'But Sir, I'm trying to do my work, he's distracting me!'

At this point Mr Prince gave them both a look and, knowing they wouldn't get any further, the two turned back to pretending to study. Mr Prince made his way to the front bench. He called out that they had ten minutes remaining on their current task before seeing a hand go up and going over to help.


	24. How One's Former Career Shapes Them

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 24**

Amongst such joyous activity in the workplace (Stephen's sense of sarcasm remaining intact and as sharp as ever) he had little time to devote to worrying about things that may be going on outside his immediate sphere. Stephen was not so naive to think that the problem had disappeared entirely, no, it would be back he knew, but hey, why should he be worried?

He was beginning to think that really, the matter shouldn't affect him at all. He was Stephen Prince, Teacher of Secondary School, and he was getting his pants in a twist over nothing.

Or so he tried to convince himself on the balmy spring night that found him in the park having a quiet smoke. His relentless pacing betrayed his true feelings on the matter.

There was another thing that was trying to bother him, he had had another one of his occasional emails from Persephone.

They were always friendly, hello type letters, not too long, but enough to leave him with the knowledge that she still wanted to stay in touch. He always answered her back, there was no reason not to, however, he was always careful with his wording and generally kept the subject on work.

Paula had asked him once, around the time Persephone was leaving for another school in London, whether he was going to miss her or did the two have plans to see each other. Stephen had answered as vaguely as he could, Paula knew she was being fobbed off but knowing Stephen as she did she also realised she wasn't going to get much more of an answer, and prying wasn't her thing.

Stephen flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under the toe of his shoe. Absentmindedly, he picked up the refuse and binned it before lighting another.

Shit. He couldn't let himself get into the habit again. But now it was lit best not let it go to waste.

Walking around the park his thoughts returned to Persephone again. She had been nice. No, nice was a bland word. She was, umm, well, anyway, he had been attracted to her, and she to him. They had been very professional and discreet regarding anything to do with it, but little by little the two would end up talking to each other quite a lot on the nights and occasional Sunday afternoons when the usual gathering went to the pub, sitting side by side on the end of the table.

It had not gone much further than that. Stephen hadn't dared to question himself why, he was afraid he wouldn't like the answer. Just accept that it didn't happen, he told himself. And that it was a good thing it didn't, way too complicated.

So Persephone had switched schools (nothing to do with him he believed, well, she still kept in contact, so, yeah) and things had continued 'not to happen'.

As he walked along the path, the smell of the freesias and the lilac on the night air mixing with his nicotine, he wondered whether he should write back a bit more of an encouraging reply to her this time. Maybe (and he had wondered this a few times in the past), maybe he should make overtones towards her, maybe they could get married, start a family.

Every other time he had started thinking along these lines, Severus had roused his sleeping self from the corner of his mind where he had been shoved and had put in the sensible objections and flaws. Usually these focused on him being in the negative. 'You'll only screw up her life' (not enough data to disprove this hypothesis but enough circumstantial evidence), You're too old for her' (well, she was/had been thirty three, so it might be pushing the bounds of propriety, if there even was such a thing), 'You're too set in your ways' (O.K., that one was very true and always had been, he was stubborn, he'd admit to it, but Persephone hadn't seemed the pushover type). But 'You're too messed up' 'what if she finds out about, you know, that?' were his two biggest fears. What if they were out and he was suddenly struck with a panic attack? What if he was asleep and said something that he didn't want to explain in the morning? What if he had kids . . .?

No, he would never have kids. Stephen did not want to pass on Severus, pass on Tobias, pass on his Great Grandfather Prince who he knew had also been every bit the tyrant. He couldn't ask children to deal with his moods, or with him when he knew from the outset that he could not show them any affection. This would then continue the family 'tradition' of bitter, twisted souls, unwanted and unloved. He had decided a long time ago that it would end with him. He had decided that when he had fully started to understand what self-sacrifice was.

But then again . . . an image of Persephone's long, platinum blonde hair (it had been bleached, it was the fashion after all) framing her pale face (even though fake tan was in she knew it looked ridiculous on her), her nice figure, just the right, tempting balance of curves and flesh and shape. He thought of her eyes, which had been a rather turquoise type blue in some lights, and of the fact that she always overdid the kohl and the mascara (another 'in' fashion which, in his personal opinion, only enhanced a woman if you were all kinds of beer-goggled drunk and you couldn't care less anyway about her face, sad but true).

These thoughts depressed him, he did not consider himself to be a man like that. He had liked Persephone for who she was, for her laugh and the way she hid behind her hair when embarrassed, for the interesting thoughts she had about life and society and lots of random little things.

'Face it.' Severus whispered, 'You just liked her because she paid you attention. Like Lily did. And she liked you being the hopeless romantic hanging around because it made her feel important'. The comment from his inner self stung and opened up the wound that he had been trying, trying ever so hard to allow to heal, to forget about, in the hope he could be normal, that he could regain the use of his heart in its etymological sense. Which he knew was crap, he was damaged beyond repair, and there was no use blaming Lily, it wasn't all her fault, though some of it was, but, but.

'You've been over this a million times' Severus spoke. 'You know there's not going to be a fixed answer. Life is what it is. You chose not to die. You did that for some unknown reason. Now accept your choice and move on.'

He hated having arguments with himself.

However, he knew that his greatest fear of all was that he was repulsed by himself and who he was. For if he didn't like himself, if he could hardly tolerate who he was, then when someone got to know the absolutely real him they would certainly feel cheated and accuse him of tricking them with a façade.

No, better to not try than to try and have the pain of rejection, of someone else looking and truly seeing what you really were. Severus Snape, gaining the upper hand over Stephen Prince, finished the last of the cigarette and disposed of the stub.

'Come on, you, you're nowt to moan ower much, we don' need multiple personality disorder on top a everthin', so we don't' he said to himself 'tha's had nigh too much already'.

Multiple personality disorder, if he didn't have it by now with the life he had led . . . Well, he had always pulled his softer instincts into line. If it got out that Severus Snape was really a foolish romantic at heart . . .

Maybe 'foolish romantic' was taking it just slightly too far. Feeling rather more cheerful than he did before, Severus stuck his hands in his pockets and made for home having suddenly made his decision.


	25. Conversation

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 25**

To: persephonegaten .uk

Subject: London

It was nice to hear from you again. I am sorry that you are feeling a little frustrated with your Year 11s, but there is nothing new there. They are teenagers, they will always be frustrating. It sounds like your management isn't being very helpful either. Well, that is also to be expected.

Just think, the year is almost over and then you will be on summer holidays . . . and then you will have to do it all again. Until you are quite old, if the rumblings from government are to be believed. So you'll have a walking frame, or maybe a big stick (good weapon!) and you'll be trying to control a class of screaming Year 10s for whom one's boyfriend has cheated on them with another . . I know you will look forward to that.

I am thinking of coming down to London in the near future, there are a few errands I must run, and so I thought maybe to take you up on that offer for a drink?

Keep your chin up.

Best wishes

Stephen

To: sprince .uk

Subject: Drink

Heya Stephen, cool! It would be lovely to see you again. Just let me know when you're thinking of coming down, I don't really have anything major planned for the next few weekends. Did you want it to be just a drink, or did you want to do lunch or something? Day or Evening?

Sef

To: persephonegaten .uk

Subject: Drink

Regarding what time to meet up, I could not do lunch as it will curtail my activities. However, late afternoon or dinner would be fine, I believe. Do you have a place in mind?

I also propose that maybe the Easter School Holidays would be the best time for this to occur as then there is more of a range of options and the frantic and fruitless attempt to push facts into student's brains will be over.

Stephen

To: sprince .uk

Subject: Drink

Yeah, I know a few nice little places ;-), (what, you would expect me to stay at home and NOT know where the nice bars were?)

How about you come to the Village (Wimbledon Village that is), there's a good pub there and it's quite a nice area. Or would you prefer to stay in the city?

Sef

To: persephonegaten .uk

Subject: Drink

Going out to the 'sticks' is fine. But we haven't arranged a date yet. I'll just look at my diary and the train timetables, etc. and ask you whether it's suitable before I book.

Stephen

To: sprince .uk

Subject: Drink

Cool beans! Talk soon!

(And don't forget to have fun with (that means torture!) Year 11. Especially Daniel Hewitt, even if he's not in your class, hunt him down and do something terrible to him for me!)

Sef

To: persephnegaten .uk

Subject: Torture of Student

Ms Gaten,

The fact that you proposed for me to torture a student on your behalf was terribly unprofessional. Especially as that student can no longer do anything to annoy you. And if I punish him on your behalf, he'll want to know who ordered the hit, and I'll have to tell him it was you. And that, my dear Ms Gaten, would not be acceptable. We can't disabuse the students of the notion that we, as teachers, have no lives outside the school or, heaven forbid, actually _communicate_ with each other. No, it would be too disturbing for him, so I shall not accede to your wishes.

However, I do suggest that you may require seeing a healthcare professional as it would seem that you cannot let go of a grudge against a poor innocent child. This is really not a good state for you to be in, especially considering your career, and I feel that you should seek help as soon as convenient.

Yours sincerely,

Mr Prince

To: sprince .uk

Subject: Student Behaviour

Bight me!

S

To: persephonegaten .uk

Subject: Your state of mind

Dear Ms Gaten, you want me to begin torturing you now? Issues, Ms Gaten, issues . . you appear to have many. May I reiterate my suggestion of you seeing some professional help?

Mr Prince

To: sprince .uk

Subject:

You're a div!

:-p

(Get back to me when you've done something nasty to that foul little demon Mr Hewitt. Or when you've booked your train. Whichever)

Laters!

S


	26. Script Part One

_Note: Sorry that this is a few days late, I've been very busy and have only just found the time to write. _

_Correction Note: In the previous chapter, I think that I put the characters as saying 'Come down to London'. A true person from the U.K. would say 'Go up to London', no matter if it was geographically south of them as it is in this case. I have always found this strange, but there you go. _

_(I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 25**

**SCRIPT: EVERYDAY MAGIC (working title)**

**SERIES/EPISODE: SERIES 1 EPISODE 1**

**WRITTEN BY: ASTORIA MALFOY**

**CO WRITERS: TIM EXETER/PARVATI PATIL**

**PRODUCER: DRACO MALFOY**

**ASSISTANT PRODUCER: CAROLINA RONSON**

_Older, steady and comforting looking man on the edge of the wood. Wearing chinos and a knitted jumper. Height of middle class respectability is the look we want. Accent must not be too pronounced/hard to understand, must be an 'everyman'. Presenter starts walking towards the camera slowly whilst delivering his script._

**PRESENTER:** When you think of Witches and Wizards, you may think of the image of an old, ugly persons sitting hunched over a mysterious cauldron. Or someone with a staff and robes who knows of such creatures as Orcs and Hobbits.

You might think of things such as Eye of Newt, or Rat's Tails and black cats.

Above all, you think of magic. And here is its modern day story.

_Music swells (mysterious but not overly so, some strings but give some solid lower register, double basses and cellos. Maybe a bassoon). Opening credits, modern and crisp but with a slight whimsy flourish about them._

_New shot, presenter in a church (St Pauls, London? Too expensive? Somewhere where it can be seen and recognised easily in the background? Memo: Check with budget team.). Same clothes as opening credits. During the following sequence images will be shown that relate to the copy, Memo: have someone go through the archives for suitable footage._

**PRESENTER:** Britain has had a long association with magic. It seems to be a country which attracts it, magic's very essence imbues our hedgerows and moors, our cities and our mountains.

Indeed, many of the rituals we have today are derived from practices that were to do with the Paganism that held sway over Britain and much of Europe in the Dark Ages. When the Anglo-Saxons adopted Christianity, they merged it in with many of their existing practices, and so today we hold celebrations such as the Harvest Festival, where at the full moon that is the closest to the Autumn Equinox, churches are decorated and prayers of thanks are offered up to God for His blessing and provision that year, which is often followed by a feast. The format of the celebration is the same, but the deity being worshipped has changed.

Paganism is still a popular religion today, and a look on the internet will quickly reveal many offering potions for your love life, tarot readings, clairvoyance services and astrology insights. If you talk amongst your circle of acquaintances, you are sure to find someone who bases even at least part of their belief system on the worship of Mother Nature. This is what modern-day witchcraft is thought to look like. The Wizard in his flowing robes and pointed hat does not exist except in fairy tales.

But what if this was not true? What if there were actual people who could channel a sort of natural and immense power seemingly without thinking about it? What if these people have always been among us and it was they who have given rise to the myths and legends we have come to treasure as fantastical tales, but for them it is their actual history?

_Change shot to location Shell Cottage, Tinworth, Cornwall. Shot should show FLEUR WEASLEY in the kitchen doing 'mother' things (baking perhaps) with her children like any other family. Make sure BILL WEASLEY ends up in there too somehow. Show the fact that FLEUR is obviously pregnant. Aim to show a happy, normal family life._

**PRESENTER: **This is Fleur and Bill Weasley. They live in a village in Cornwall with their two daughters, Victoire and Dominique.

You would be pardoned for thinking that they were a family like any other. But the Weasley's are different. They are a Magical family and have known magic all of their lives. So what does this mean for them?

_Shot: close-up Fleur, then keep crossing back between her talking to camera (on the beach outside?), taking a jog, playing with the children and the family dog, reading to the children, etc._

**FLEUR: **I have always known that I was a Witch, it is normal for me. My family is one of the well-known and respected ones in France, the Delacours have been around helping France's rulers since before the Normans.

_Change shot to FLEUR and BILL holding hands and walking along the beach. Up the romance factor, give the audience something to like (don't let the audience (controversial: women?) get jealous of FLEUR as a 'character' and therefore reject what she is actually saying)._

**FLEUR:** I met Bill when I was doing a summer internship at Gringott's Bank. At first my parents were a bit against the match, they would have liked me to marry Angelo Valentino, the eldest of Italy's first Wizarding family. But they were not too unhappy, they married for love and wished for their children to have happiness.

**BILL:** My family, the Weasleys, are one of the 'Wizarding 28', which is what they called the true pureblood Wizarding families in the U.K. Of course, they are not absolutely pure blood, but there are some that do try to keep it that way.

My family were designated 'blood traitors' because we were 'Muggle sympathetic'. (_Note, do not explain what a Muggle is yet, introduce the term and gloss over. We want the audience to develop feelings for the 'characters')._ However, this didn't mean anything to Mum and Dad, and they brought us up not to worry about it. As kids we used to get a bit of stick at school for it, but there's so many kids from so many different backgrounds there that it really didn't matter.

_Move on to start establishing other 'characters' so that the audience can quickly find someone they can relate too. That will be the focus of this episode._

_Show an establishing shot of the village of Ottery St Catchpole. Show Muggles going about their business on the high street before giving an idyllic establishing shot of The Burrow. Then line up the Weasleys in a group shot and focus the camera on each one of them in turn when their name is mentioned._

**NARRATOR:** Bill Weasley grew up with his family in the village of Ottery St Catchpole in Devon. Here, the Weasleys, father Arthur, mother Molly, and the younger siblings, Charlie, Percy, George, Ron and Ginevra, the only sister. Though the family had been very poor, the children still feel that they had a happy and loving upbringing.

**MOLLY:** Arthur and I met properly in school but we knew of each other, I was a Prewitt, see, and occasionally there would be a Wizarding Social or something that we would both be invited to.

We moved here because we thought it would be a good place to bring up a family. There are nice open spaces and places for children to run and play, and yet it's still close to other Wizarding families. So it's a good place, yes.

**NARRATOR:** As well as there being several prominent Wizarding families in the vicinity of Ottery St Catchpole, there are also many other Wizarding villages in the South and West countries. Could this have something to do with it being in the vicinity of Glastonbury, Tintagel and Salisbury, all renowned sights of British myth, legend and witchcraft? _(Show shots of these areas and pictures of the events that happened there, etc.)_

_Establishing shot of busy London, people crossing the streets, on mobile phones, eating fast food, pigeons, etc. Shift shot to Islington and show nice cafés and 'yummy mummies' with their Bugaboo pushchairs, trees, white terraces. Gentrified. _

**NARRATOR:** Wizarding folk do not only live in the countryside, some prefer the bustle of the town. Here in London lives Sirius Black, the last of his family. They are considered to be one of the pillars of English wizardry, though Sirius does not care for his family history.

**SIRIUS BLACK:** The Blacks have always lived here in London, this was where they had their 'town' residence. There was, of course, the country 'seats', but my parents liked to be in the middle of the action here. Which was strange as they didn't like ordinary people very much. In fact, they were quite the snobs.

**NARRATOR:** Today Islington is a desirable place for the mobile middle class. It is a pretty, leafy borough of London, a breath of fresh air after the hustle and bustle of the centre. However, it has only just started to become this way since the 1960s. Once an upwardly aspiring place as nearby Sadlers Wells took off in popularity, it soon fell into overcrowding and during the war a lot of it was damaged through the bombing raids. (Historical footage from archives throughout narration).

_Only film inside of house and sort of generic surrounds. Do not reveal enough information for a location to be established. Make sure your interior shots get the feeling of faded grand gentility, make the viewer's think of Austen, etc._

**SIRIUS BLACK:** The house itself had a protection charm on it throughout the war and so it was not harmed, unlike others in the street.

**NARRATOR:** Protection charm? Like magic?

**SIRIUS BLACK:** Yes. It was quite a powerful one that would have been cast by several family members, and because we share a common wall with each of the buildings on either side here, the charm was extended to include those houses as well. Of course the people living in them didn't know.

**SIRIUS BLACK:** This was my brother, Regulus' room.

**NARRATOR:** He was your younger brother?

**SIRIUS BLACK:** Yes. Two years younger. Or one, I forget. Here's a picture of him flying on the Quidditch team. He was the Seeker for his house.

**NARRATOR:** Quidditch being a sort of football played on broomsticks in the air?

**SIRIUS BLACK:** Yes.

**NARRATOR:** What is this picture here?

_Zoom camera in to photo showing members of Slytherin, some obviously a bit worse for wear. Get the general party feel of it, then highlight over the Lestranges, the Goyles, end up with the Malfoys, Lucius first and then Narcissa in front of him, then pan beside Narcissa and stop the camera so the main focus is on Regulus, but also shows Severus Snape beside him._

**SIRIUS BLACK:** That looks like a photo of my brother's school house. He was in Slytherin . . . .

'Do you know how many times we had to shoot that take? He's mad, I'm telling you, frickin' insane! To get that way over a bunch of photos . . . and he just kept ranting on about Father and Mother and getting really, really upset about Professor Snape for some reason. '

'Well, the people in that particular photo tend to evoke strong reactions from people, Draco. He's not been that co-operative from the start, not since the minister let us on board.'

'At least Potter is willing to help and is being civil. I hope this works, Astoria. It's a brilliant idea of yours, and your writing is amazing. You're amazing.'

'Ah, Draco, I know! Now, don't descend into your maudlin depths again, dear, there's too much work to do. Now, how about a nice meal out to celebrate the finish of filming?'

'There's the wrap party tomorrow.'

'Yes, but I think the two of us deserve a quiet champagne each.'

'I think you could be right. I love you so much, Astoria.'

'I know, Darling, how could you not? That was a joke! Now let's head off, the champagne is calling and it's never good to keep champagne waiting . . . '


	27. Auxiliary Chapter (In the Edit Suite)

_Thank you to __**Rumour of an Alchemist**__ for the up/down to London possible explanation. I also thought it might be because London is seen as the 'centre' and going up sounds superior to going dow. _

_**Duj**__, this auxiliary chapter is for you._

_ (I don't own Harry Potter)_

**Chapter 27**

'It's too slow! This isn't for BBC 4!'

'Calm down, Parvati. It's still got to have the music under it . . . '

'I don't care! If I can't see it taking shape right now, that means it's not actually taking shape! We can't afford to screw up this time! We've already had one chance, we don't want to be the laughing stock!'

'Parvati . . .'

'Look here, I'm the head of Media, what I say goes! You have to pull this up so it's between BBC 3 and BBC 1. Don't go into Four territory. Waaaay too trashily voyeuristic. But it has to be exciting, for Merlin's sake! And classy! No one wants to see this perfect, beautiful family who also has special powers rubbed in their face! Who wants that?'

'Jealous much?'

'Shut your mouth, I'm trying to present the Wizarding world to the Muggles here, and all you can do is joke about it!'

'Ok, we'll put in a bit more quidditch and wand work at the start to grab the attention. Be warned, though, Muggles will think it's done by green screen.'

'Green screen? Huh? Look, just do as I say!'

'_I'm_ trying to say that putting in visual pyrotechnics won't sway Muggles. They don't believe what they see on a screen anymore, they call it 'Movie Magic'. That's why the characterisations are so important, connecting with the cast.'

'Are you saying that Muggles won't actually believe in magic?'

'Not just by looking at it on a T.V. screen, no. Trust me on this one, Parvati, I've been to Muggle film school, remember? I've been _assimilated.'_

'Yeah, and a fat lot of good it's done you!'

'Hey, that was uncalled for!'

'I swear to Merlin, Stewart, this has to be ready to show the government in five days. They have to be impressed this time. '

'Parvati, stop stressing. It will be fine. I'll get you a rough cut by tomorrow.'

'You'd better stick to that!'

'I will. Now get out of my hair and let me do my job.'


	28. Oh Leave Me Not To Pine

**_Warning: This Chapter has some slash. (Not Sev, I hasten to add). To me, ever since I read the Shoebox Project, this pairing has made sense, especially in light of what happened in THBP and DH. _**

**_(I don't own Harry Potter. Quote credits at bottom. And 'Ginger' is pronounced 'Gingher' in the UK, it's slang.)_**

**Chapter 28**

The music room's purple velvet and chintz furnishings were bathed in shadows and the single desk-lamp was emitting a small yellow glow that looked rather lost, especially when the draft from the wind outside teased and taunted it, causing it to tremble and flicker as if in fear.

On the gramophone a record was playing, the music crackling with the dust and imperfections on the vinyl surface. Still, the soprano sounded sweet and clear, despite the extra little pops surrounding it. She sung a plaint, pleading with her lover not to go and yet still happy that he was there at that moment.

_'Ah, leave me not to pine_

_Alone and desolate;_

_No fate seemed fair as mine,_

_No happiness so great!_

_And Nature, day by day,_

_Has sung in accents clear_

_This joyous roundelay,_

In one of the single armchairs a man was sitting, one ankle resting on his knee. He had a glass of soft merlot in one hand whilst the other gently waved around in time to the music.

Sirius Black was reminiscing. For the past few months, since he had come back from wherever the hell it was that he had been for all of those years, he had been bouncing about excitedly, showing large amounts of enthusiasm to all. Sirius had been, without realising it, trying to convince himself that everything was absolutely fantastic. He hadn't been the one to feel his loss for all of those years. To him it had been the blink of an eye.

However, gradually he had become aware of a sort of niggling discomfort, something in the back of his mind like a half remembered dream or a sore tooth that your tongue keeps going to.

Sirius was definitely one to brood, but not to think whilst doing so. His black moods did not entertain asking the universe why, they generally consisted of internal rants regarding the unfairness of it all, with lashings of self-pity and flashes of hatred for others.

_"He loves thee- he is here._

_Fa-la, la-la,_

_Fa-la, la-la._

He felt that he had never really found his footing again upon escaping Azkaban. What had once seemed something too good to be true, when it had finally seemed like he was getting his life back and could live again after all of the wasted years spent in that dark, damp, cursed rock, where you never felt quite dry or clean or fed, he had found the reality quite different. Even after outing Pettigrew, that slippery bastard, he had not felt any better and perhaps even worse due to the fact the rat had escaped (Sirius had rejoiced at hearing of his death from Harry). There were only a handful of people that believed he didn't kill his best friend and their wife, he had been therefore plunged into another type of prison, one of hiding and living in the shadows.

And now this. He wasn't living in the shadows any more, oh no, he was to be presented as the tasty bit of aristocratic rough for middle aged muggle women to sigh over – Sirius sighed, drank the contents of his glass with a practised swallow and poured himself another round.

_He loves thee- he is here._

_Fa-la, la-la, Fa-la."'_

The soprano finished her expressions of thankfulness and the hero tenor took up his lines. Sirius found himself mouthing along to the words before stumbling upwards and heading towards the shelves. Placing the merlot on the most available ledge, he began scanning the titles until the one that he wanted appeared, upon which he plucked it out (almost causing an avalanche as there was a lot more items on the shelves than they had really been designed to take), re-appropriated the wine and moved towards the piano. Propping up the lid and putting the wine in easy reach, Sirius opened the keyboard and placed the music on the stand, joining in with the last part of the song and then as the music turned towards a more upbeat number, he re-started the duet, this time accompanying the musical lovers with the piano. When it got to the tenor's section again, Sirius joined in.

_Ah, must I leave thee here  
In endless night to dream,  
Where joy is dark and drear,  
And sorrow all supreme-  
Where nature, day by day,  
Will sing, in altered tone,  
This weary roundelay,  
"He loves thee- he is gone.  
Fa-la, la-la,  
Fa-la, la-la.  
He loves thee- he is gone.  
Fa-la, la-la, Fa-la."_

The crushing and vast emptiness that had been threatening him for months now suddenly broke over him, and Sirius felt the cry of loneliness and grief rip through him and exit his mouth as a ragged wail of despair.

Once, about a year out of school, Sirius had bumped into someone who had been a few years above them. After exchanging pleasantries, the young woman had enquired whether he and James were dating yet. She had blushed and apologised profusely for her error when she saw her mistake reflected in Sirius' wide-eyed surprise and his bark of laughter. He had corrected her with a grin, James and he were best mate0s, blood brothers, yes they truly loved each other, but not _loved_ each other (though, he had thought to himself at the time, there was that one kiss in OWL year, when they had both been drunk after the spring ball and had been dared . . . and yes, perhaps it had gone on a little too long, but it still didn't make them interested in each other _like that_. Continuing to apologise and turning a deep magenta, the acquaintance had asked then if not James, then had he found the right man in someone else.

This had left Sirius a bit baffled. He had looked at her puzzled and slightly offended manner, set her straight and quickly taken himself off. 'All the girls knew they actually couldn't have you, you know' had been one of her statements, and it kept going around in his mind for quite a long time afterwards.

He'd had lots of them, so why did she say that? He had been the one the birds all wanted to date, he knew where all the make out places were, and where you could get some private time with that special someone without freezing your bollocks off whilst trying to enjoy yourself (though the cold did make nipples quite nice and perky, always a bonus). He had been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team throughout his whole school career, he was rich and handsome and he never had to think about who he was going to take to an event, he always had his pick of the school. Whatever had made her think, whatever had made all of them think that, according to her, he was, well, actually into men?

'You, mate,' Remus had said to him that night when he had gone to visit, unable to rid his brain of the shocking new piece of information 'you are not seriously asking that question?'

'Yes, Remus, I am Siriusly seriously asking that question.' Here he had taken another dosing of whiskey, it was just the cheapest one from down at the local Polski and it burned his throat. He had felt the warmth running once again through his insides, the problem was, however, keeping it there, the soothing glow always seemed to disappear after five minutes or so. 'Why did the girls at school think I was gay?'

It was at this point Remus hadn't answered him verbally but physically, and Sirius had found his world tipped totally upside down . . .

During the mid 90s, whilst undergoing his 'house arrest', Lupin had kept him company in between his little errands for Dumbledore and the Order. They had often retreated up here to the music room, where Sirius would play the piano and he and Remus would sing, Sirius often putting on a very silly falsetto and playing the women's role as Remus had a fine voice and liked to sing the lead male parts. Mainly it had been Gilbert and Sullivan, Mooney had a fondness for the UK staple and though he had liked jazz and swing he had had a habit of whistling or singing random parts of any of their works at any given time.

Occasionally Molly would come up upon hearing the music, if they were not being too silly and Sirius had not been too surly at dinner. Arthur, too, enjoyed their impromptu little 'salons', occasionally sitting by the fire with his feet on an ottoman, reading the muggle newspaper or drowsily marking the beat with a finger. But mainly he and Remus were left alone, and they used these moments to greedily re-connect with each other.

When Sirius had entered Azkaban, the grief over the death of James had been crushing, he had physically felt like his ribcage was restricted and that he couldn't breathe. He had hardly noticed the trial, his grief had been so great. Nights would be spent drinking himself into a stupor on the couch. Sometimes Remus would join him there, just sitting, or holding his hand. Some nights he would provide a shoulder to cry on, stroking Sirius' curls soothingly and holding him until he fell asleep in exhaustion.

Remus had admitted to Sirius, years later when they were reunited, that he had put his own grief on hold in order to face the circumstances. He had realised that Sirius would need him to be strong, Sirius didn't cope very well with random, unplanned events, especially ones that he was hugely emotionally invested in. Therefore, Remus had patiently stuck with him throughout, ignoring the rages, providing comfort in the despair and providing Sirius with physical human contact to ground him.

Sirius remembered now, as he played (the gramophone had fallen silent), how Remus had told him of his feelings during the trial and subsequent verdict. 'I was in shock. I could not believe that they would honestly think you capable of killing a whole street of Muggles. Especially after Dumbledore vouched for you.'

Remus had turned away from the other man at this point, apparently not wishing to show the emotions that were running across his face as a consequence of remembering the past. 'I thought . . . I felt . . . '

Here Sirius had put his arms around him and led him gently to the settee, tenderly kissing him on the cheek and pulling him close after they were seated. 'Well, I'm here now, Mooney' he had said, 'And we have another chance now.' He had paused to brush the stubborn lock of hair from his lover's eye where it always fell. Mooney hadn't replied, but had returned the embrace fiercely, and, after seemingly reassuring something inside of himself that Sirius wasn't going to disappear in a puff of smoke, had relaxed against his shoulder.

But it had been one year or so. One year, in which he, Sirius was so often angry and the feeling of being trapped and forced into something against his will, and in which Remus was often away on business at Dumbledore's insistence. Of course Mooney had obeyed the old man, his often misguided Sense of Duty let him to making these sorts of grand gestures. His insecurity led him often into the trap of trying to please, of wanting to be seen as 'useful', and so he had taken Dumbledore's side in just about everything blindly, and whenever Sirius had begged him to take him out he had always refused, knowing that it Was Not The Sensible Thing And Would Be Against Dumbledore's Wishes.

Sirius had managed to persuade Remus to sneak out for a night on the town with him only once. It had been during the Christmas holidays, after it was known that Arthur was recovering and Grimauld place was full of noisy gingers. Sirius had been enjoying the company of others, mostly lurking around with the twins and helping them experiment with ideas and formulas for their product range.

'We're in London, and therefore we fancy a night on the town whilst we're here' Fred had ventured to say during one of these sessions, and the notion had been born and planned with care and precision. They had managed to sweet-talk Tonks into procuring them some Polyjuice potion from the ministry (no point in asking that bastard Snape, he'd only refuse and then stick his oversized beak into everything and ruin it all) and after Remus had been brought on board (which, in the impatient mind of Sirius Black, had taken forever) and the Polyjuice divided into three portions with the necessary addition included to each, the twins and himself had drunk away.

Fred and George both became rather clean-cut but non-descript young 20 somethings, the type that is seen in London every day and looked like they would have a job at Canary Wharf. However, they had been a bit cheeky with Sirius' disguise, and he had kicked himself mentally afterwards for putting his trust in them entirely. He was now the butt of one of their practical jokes, his hair had grown out down past his shoulder blades and was now blonde, and he most noticeably now had breasts.

Fred and George had instantly stepped up, each grabbing an arm and tucking into the crook of their elbow. 'Wow, Tiffany. Long time no see.' George crooned in his ear, whilst Fred asked him whether his tits were real and could he try to decide for himself through a feel. To which Sirius had replied, shaking himself free of them, that Fred was welcome to try, but he'd find himself dead and buried before he knew what was happening. They had, however, had a great night and all had hangovers galore the next morning. Sirius had woken up to Remus's arms around him and the sheet twisted around one of his legs. He had been afraid, last night, when he realised that the Polyjuice had made him a woman, he had been afraid Remus would loose interest in him even if it was only for one evening.

But Remus had stuck by him, not seeming to be bothered by Sirius' change of sex. According to Lupin, as he had explained to Sirius later after their nausea had abated, his basic body scent had not altered, it just lacked a bit of the edge on the testosterone, etc. 'But don't get me wrong,' Lupin had breathed in his ear at that point, 'Last night was a fun experiment,' (here Lupin's hands had started wandering over Sirius), 'But I much prefer you like this...'

Sirius was unaware that he had stopped playing. The lantern was growing dim now, the shadows in the room had increased and the wind's howling had not abated. He sat on the stool, twisting his hands in his lap before quietly removing the music from the stand, closing the piano and blowing out the flame. As he passed through the door he hesitated, and then deliberately but gently shut the door on the ghosts of the past, for tonight at least.

(Song: 'Oh Leave Me Not To Pine' - Gilbert and Sullivan, from _Pirates of Penzance, or, The Slave of Duty.)_


	29. Dusk

**_I did write this chapter before, but I was stressed and it didn't come out as well as I had hoped (thank you to duj for pointing it out). Later on I found I was coming down with something and this had infiltrated my writing. Here is the re-tweaked version. It's closer to my original vision and hopefully the fat has been trimmed. The tense inconsistencies are intentional._**

**_(I don't own Harry Potter. And I accidentally typed 'Steverus' whilst writing this. )_**

**Chapter 29**

9.30 p.m., and a train slowly started to pull out of London St Pancras and began its journey back to the Midlands. The long twilight was starting to finish up, a few red and brown streaks still staining the now darkened sky towards the horizon. Some brave stars were shining, and they seemed to be reflected in the cities' myriad of lights that were flashing past the windows, until the capital was left behind and they were replaced with the indigo of seemingly endless fields.

Stephen Prince watched all of this without really paying attention to any of it. His thoughts kept starting up and then they would become side-tracked and fall into disarray.

She had kissed him. Not just on his cheek. On his lips. She had grabbed him and kissed him. Him, Severus. The Untouchable. The Unclean. Hated and feared and despised . . .

It must have been a pity thing?

No, because it was Stephen. She had grabbed and kissed Stephen . . . she thought he was normal, everyday, ordinary Stephen Prince . . .

(She had smelt like jasmine . . . jasmine and roses and . . . )

Sigh.

He had been nervous about seeing her again but had firmly gone about his business tasks as if nothing was out of the ordinary. As the day had progressed, however, his nerves had started to make themselves felt and it had become much more of a concentrated effort to push back the unhelpful thoughts that had crowded his mind.

They had met up in the pub that she had suggested, an upper middle class pose effort full of dark flocked wallpaper, wood furniture, antlers and the obligatory wankers. Just the sort of place that he wasn't in the habit of frequenting. Definitely not his style.

He had located her through the crowd (Merlin he had forgot the reaction she caused within him whenever he saw her!), she had already nabbed a table by a wall and was sipping elegantly at a wine.

In the end, it was very much easier than Stephen had expected, and the two had soon been chatting away and laughing like they had only been parted a day (though he suspected that the cider he had been drinking had also played a part in that, for which he was grateful). At around six she had murmured something indistinct about dinner and had stood up.

It had been slightly chilly and as they had exited into the start of the twilight and Persephone had shivered. Long streaks of clouds, painted pink and gold and indigo were streaked across the smalt blue sky and the wind had blown a few fierce gusts to as if to remind them that spring wasn't all sunshine and flowers.

He had offered her his coat . . . she had smiled . . .

As he had slipped it off and went to put it around her shoulders . . .

(Reaching behind her, his middle exposed, her arms darting in, opportunity seized)

(Never let yourself be exposed. Never let down your guard. Never give away the flaw in your armour . . . )

(Pulling him towards her, or herself towards him, either way . . . )

She had ended up pressed against him. His heart, surely she could feel it as it strove to deal with the rush of hormones and adrenalin that threatened to drown him.

His hands, his arms, they just sort of . . .

(Her cheek pressed against his chest, Her arms cinching him, oh Merlin, oh Merlin . . .)

He made a noise. A strangled sort of gargling noise, and her head had come off his chest and she had looked at him . . .

(Her eyes, endless depths of blue . . . )

(She must think . . . Merlin he was an . . . hands, arms, quick, where to put them? . . . no, she's going now anyway, she's leaving, she's moving backwards, she's . . . )

Blur. Shock. Surprise. He was turned to a statue, an inanimate object on the outside, unable to move, to breath, the lift his arms . . .

Her hand was now pressed against the back of his neck, causing tiny little shocks as she caressed his shaved nape.

(Oh! . . . )

She was the aggressor in this, the one in control, she was . . .

(Her lips. Soft. So soft. So . . . )

Oh Merlin, she was kissing him!

(Lightning crackling through every fibre of his inside, every nerve tingling with shock).

(Oh please, oh please, oh . . . )

No. He had to stop it. Before someone got hurt.

Severus' brain had kicked in and with it the moment for him was lost. He had pulled backwards, a little too quickly, he had caught the flash of rejection from her before she, too, had pulled back.

'Sorry. I must be a little tipsy. Oh God, I'm sorry'.

'No, no, it's ok. Really. I understand . . . .'

'Oh Stephen, oh God. I just . . . '

Her head turned down and she had stepped back even further, the last rays of the sun as the dusk fell emphasised the flush on her cheek.

(Those beautiful high, laughing cheekbones . . . Now sad with embarrassment and . . . )

'No, no, not at all. I was just, um,'

'You don't need to explain.'

'Um. Well . . . '

'Look, this was fun. Thank you for seeing me again.' She had gone to hand him back his coat.

(Now or never, Stephen. You do realise this?)

'Umm, well.' He could feel a flush starting to spread over his own features, 'I thought, um, I was wondering . . . '

At this point the bus pulled up and Persephone turned towards it. Stephen stood there looking as she carefully got out her Oyster pass, her face downcast. She turned towards it and impulsively he had reached out and gently grasped her arm. It was enough to turn her back towards him, the bus closed its doors and headed off.

'Dinner' he had blurted out ungracefully. He had felt the flush rising even higher in his face. 'Would you like to have some dinner?'

The smile she had given him.

'That would be lovely. Thanks.' (The smile again, oh Merlin, he didn't know if he could take it). 'Do you have any preference?'

'No. Wherever you would like.'

'Hmm' (Her lips forming a charming little pout, those lips, those lips that had kissed his, willingly they had . . .)

Stephen Prince had found himself kissing Persephone again before he knew it. Later, after a dinner he didn't remember much of except for the fact he was dining with her and felt stunned and dazed and floating, she had kissed him again, kissed him goodbye at London St Pancras, and they both had their arms firmly around each other and his nose had been buried in the sweet scented curve of her neck.

'Call me' she had said softly, her arms slightly tightening around him.

'Absolutely' he had murmured into her hair. And then the train had been called and too early, way too early he was on it and being pulled back and away from London, from Her . . .

And Severus Snape was nowhere to be felt. Stephen Prince did not notice, and would not at that moment have cared if he did.


End file.
